EVEN  MOON 


ROBERl 


NDERSON 


Coye^S- 


^V//V//JM'!  : 


,c?  ^fl  i'RJ^S 


By  Robert  Gordon  Anderson 


The  Isle  of  Seven  Moons 
Not  Taps  but  Reveille 
The  Little  Chap 
Leader  of  Men 

For  Children 

Seven  O'Glock  Stories 


THE 
ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

A  ROMANCE  OF 
UNCHARTED  SEAS  AND  UNTRODDEN  SHORES 


BY 

ROBERT  GORDON  ANDERSON 

AUTHOR    OF 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
Iknicfcerbocfcer  ipress 

1922 


Copyright,  1922 

by 
Robert  Oordon  Anderson 

Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


To 
MARION  ANDERSON 

Good  sailor  in  fair  weather  and  foul,  in 

shallow  waters  and  deep.      May 

winds  and  tides  and  stars 

befriend  you  through 

the  Long   Voyage. 


2134094    ' 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— THE   PORT 3 

II. — "FAIRWIXDS"    AND    "BLUSTER"         .         .  13 

Hi.— THE  RED  BALDWIN           ....  22 

IV. — SHADOWS 28 

V. — THE  LIGHT 30 

VI. — THE  DICERS 34 

VII.— "THE  BIG  BOYS" 47 

VIII. — THE  DIVINE  CARLOTTA     ....  61 

IX.— "FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE"     ....  70 

X. — THE  ISLE  OF  GREEN  STAIRWAYS         .         .  84 

XI. — WINDS  OF  CHANCE 96 

XII.— SPRING 99 

XIII. — CARLOTTA   SEES  RED         ....  102 

XIV. — ENTER  SPANISH  DICK       .        .         .        .119 

XV. — A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN       .        .        .  127 

XVI. — BEHIND  THE  PICTURE       .         .         .         .151 

XVII.— THE  "AILEEN"       .                      ...  168 

XVIII. — THE  GYPSY  OF  THE  SEA           .         .         .  183 

XIX. — THE  CAFE  OF  MANY  TONGUES        .        .  194 

XX.— THE  GIRL  LINDA 208 

XXL— LAND  Ho!  215 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII. — JOURNEY'S  END  IN  ?      .         .         .221 

XXIII. — WEEK-ENDING  IN  PARADISE     .         .         .  227 

XXIV. — UNDER  THE  TARPAULIN  ....  233 

XXV.— OVER   THE   TRAIL 242 

XXVI. — SOME  ODD  REMARKS  OF  CAPTAIN  BRENT  .  258 

XXVII. — A   SONG   IN   THE   WILDERNESS         .         .  267 

XXVIII. — A  BULB  FROM  THE  GREAT  WHITE  WAY  .  274 

XXIX.— TWENTY-ONE    .                          ...  286 

XXX.— FIVE  PACES  NORTH           ....  304 

XXXI.— THE  RUBY 317 

XXXII.— THE  SENTRY 336 

XXXIII.— THE  BLACK  YACHT 342 

XXXIV. — ON  THE  TRAIL  AGAIN       ....  353 

XXXV.— A  TRICK  OF  FATE 367 

XXXVI. — THE  CURSE  OF  THE  GOLD  ....  376 

XXXVII.— ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  380 


The  Isle  of  Seven  Moons 


The  Isle  of  Seven  Moons 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  PORT 

THE  island  was  there,  yet  it  has  gone.  The  seas  have  been 
scoured  to  every  point  of  the  compass  by  the  scientifically 
or  morbidly  curious,  by  those  lustful  of  blood  or  gold,  yet 
no  keel  has  sailed  between  its  Twin  Horns  under  the  Seven 
Moons  since  that  memorable  year.  One  would  swear  that 
the  very  seas  which  the  island  jeweled  were  uncharted.  Real 
enough,  however,  they  were  to  the  voyagers  in  that  mad 
venture,  for,  after  all,  there  is  nothing  quite  so  astounding 
and  bewildering,  nothing  so  romantic  or  so  heavily  veiled 
in  illusion,  as  stark,  naked  Truth. 

Reverse  your  camera,  Time;  flash  back  over  the  years; 
unreel  your  myriad  little  pictures  on  the  silver  screen;  turn 
your  long  finger  of  light  upon  the  protagonists — no,  not  that 
crazy  New  York  crowd — not  yet — but  on  those  simpler  folk 
who  from  childhood  curled  their  fingers  in  the  manes  of 
the  wild  seahorses,  who  knew  what  it  meant  to  sail  out  into 
the  white  shroud  of  the  sea. 

They  are  vanishing  fast,  these  types,  like  the  lone  horse 
men  from  the  plains  of  the  West,  but  they  were  more  than 

3 


4  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

types — vital  enough,  God  knows.  In  1910  the  last  of  the 
riders  of  the  watery  plains  were  still  faring  forth  from 
Salthaven,  but  far  more  had  gone  down  under  the  white 
hoofs  of  their  own  steeds,  or  else  were  drawn  up  on  the 
beach  like  battered  hulks,  useful  at  best  for  mere  rowboat 
voyages  between  house  and  wharf  or  the  post-office  on 
Preble  Square,  their  cargoes, — a  weekly  newspaper,  a  spool 
of  thread.  However,  for  a  last  port  there  could  have  been 
no  more  peaceful,  no  lovelier  spot  than  Salthaven. 

To  the  North,  the  superb  lines  of  the  Lighthouse  upspring 
into  the  blue;  under  it,  Challenge  Rock  shatters  the  league- 
long,  rolling  green  walls  into  an  eternal  snowfall.  The 
landscape  to  the  West,  undulating  too,  back  from  the  rocky 
shore  in  sandy  billows,  is  covered  with  fish-rod- jointed 
"mare's-tail,"  and,  inland,  clumps  of  cedar,  feathery  pine, 
and  silver  birch,  and  here  and  there  a  solitary  hunchback  of 
a  house,  white  and  gray  against  the  silver  and  green.  To 
the  South  stretches  a  narrow  tongue  of  land,  buff  and  very 
barren,  and  between  the  two  capes,  the  crescent  shoreline 
and  the  village, — roofs  and  chimneys,  masts  and  ropes,  a 
delightful  jumble  of  dark  lines,  arcs,  and  angles  against  the 
gold  and  blue  of  a  summer  sky. 

But  the  great  half  of  the  picture  always  to  the  East  — 
tumbling,  tossing,  wallowing,  shambling,  raging,  sleeping, 
thundering,  whispering;  blue  or  gray  or  green,  all  gold  or 
black  infinitely  lipped  with  white — the  vast,  multitudinously- 
mooded  chameleon  of  an  ocean. 

Just  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  foot  of  Challenge  Rock, 
the  visitor,  skirting  the  crescent  of  the  smoother  shore-line, 


THE  PORT  5 

encounters  the  first  of  the  weather-steeped  shacks,  which 
increase  in  number  as  they  improve  in  appearance  until,  by 
the  deeper  part  of  the  harbour,  Salthaven  comprises  a  fair 
number  of  cottages,  clambering  up  the  gently-sloping  hill 
to  the  more  pretentious  homes  at  the  top,  perhaps  eighty 
feet  above  the  roadstead. 

In  the  narrow  streets  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  a  few  ancient 
buildings,  ship-chandleries,  storehouses,  and  sail-lofts,  clus 
ter  around  the  wharves,  huddling  together  like  old  cronies 
in  the  sun.  But  the  thick  forest  of  masts  has  been  felled, 
leaving  only  the  humbler  second  growth, — the  naked  top 
masts  and  less  intricate  cordage  of  schooners,  plying  between 
the  port  and  the  Banks  or  engaged  in  the  coastwise  lumber 
trade. 

Still,  though  a  little  out  at  elbow  here,  the  town  is  not  at 
all  forlorn.  Many  of  its  respected  citizens  are  retired  skip 
pers  and  shipowners,  rich  in  health  and  salty  vernacular, 
with  pensions  and  incomes  sufficient  for  all  necessities  and 
even  those  luxuries  which  the  good  folk  of  the  place  deem 
Christian.  But  the  younger  men — that  is  the  more  ambitious 
of  them — one  by  one  are  drifting  away,  some  to  ships  that 
clear  from  larger  ports,  others,  detouring  from  the  straight 
line  of  their  inheritance,  to  Boston  or  Providence,  becoming 
mere  genuflecting  shoe-clerks,  or  automobile-mechanics  for 
ever  lying  prone  under  graceless  iron  hulks  instead  of  walk 
ing  good  decks  manwise,  with  their  hands  on  the  tiller  and 
their  eyes  on  the  stars. 

At  about  four  bells,  or  two  o'clock  of  June  sixth,  a 
group  of  ancient  fishermen,  gnarled  like  apple-trees,  had 


6  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

caught  a  glimpse  of  the  old  glory  that  sometimes  lingered 
around  the  port  when  the  last  of  the  "square-riggers"  came 
home.  That  morning,  the  North  Star  had  stalked  into  the 
harbour  like  a  white  ghost  of  the  old  days.  They  were  alter 
nately  watching  her  "standing  to"  out  in  the  harbour,  and  a 
queer-hatted  fellow  who  was  sitting  before  a  tripod,  making 
odd  passes  with  a  brush  and  meticulous  pats  with  his  thumb 
— incomprehensible  way  of  making  a  living. 

"Chunks  of  atmosphere,  gobs  of  it,"  he  murmured,  raising 
his  eyes  from  the  bedaubed  lily-pad  board  to  the  stertorous 
little  tug,  pushing  and  shoving  and  boosting  the  tall  bark 
between  the  wharves.  "Good  Lord !  if  I  could  only  get  that 
smell  of  brine  and  bilge- water,  the  swish  o'  that  cutwater, 
rattle  o'  block  and  tackle,  shuffle  o'  feet,  creak  o'  winch,  and 
the  crunch  of  her  sides  against  the  straining  piles — it  all 
ought  to  go  in — not  a  discord,  just  close-shaved  harmony, 
like  Rachmaninoff — but  you  can't  put  it  down  in  colour. 

"  'A  thing  of  beauty',"  he  hummed,  then  outlined  some 
thing  rapidly  on  the  canvas,  not  the  tall  beauty  of  trim  spars 
but  another  in  the  line  of  his  vision — seated  on  an  upturned 
cask.  "H'm !  good  line  there,"  and  he  sketched  in  the  middy, 
navy  blue,  and  the  skirt — even  in  the  breeze  it  billowed 
modestly.  "Didn't  believe  they  ever  cut  'em  that  way — 
good  lines  under  it,  too, — ankles,  like  the  wrists,  a  bit  sharply- 
boned  but  all  right — thoroughbred,  in  fact — and  a  sapling 
figure"  (she  had  risen  from  the  cask  as  the  snorting  tug 
backed  water)  "but  strong,  perfect  co-ordination.  Can't 
get  that  wave  in  the  black  thatch,  though — sort  of  a  sea 
marcel." 


THE  PORT  7 

The  hawser  thumped  on  the  wharf;  the  gangplank  slid 
to  within  a  yard  of  the  unconscious  model.  She  had  gauged 
it  perfectly.  Down  they  came,  captain  and  mate,  one  sixty, 
the  other,  say  twenty- four,  both  well-muscled,  the  younger 
without  the  seasoning. 

"The  old,  old  story  of  the  sea,  trite,  commonplace,  and 
yet  not  so  commonplace,  after  all,"  sentimentalized  the 
queer-hatted  one.  "The  women  waiting  for  'their  men,'  but 
oh  Lord !" — and  he  busily  plied  his  crumbly  eraser  again. 

"I've  turned  that  brow  into  a  regular  movie  Madonna's — 
Madonna's  suggested,  but,  Man,  put  in  the  common  sense! 
The  nose,  don't  snub  it — threatens  to  turn  up  but — for 
Heaven's  sake!  what  does  it  do? — just — doesn't.  And  those 
features  to  which  I've  given  a  detestable  movie  cuteness — 
now  she's  three-quarters,  I  can  see  it — escape  the  'diminu 
tive' — by  a  fraction — chin,  too,  the  'fragile.' 

"Now,  steady  there,  Little  Lady,  ple-a-ase — I  must  get 
those  lines — those  fine,  "faintly-twitching,  little  lines,  around 
your  black  eyes,  and  so  delicately  traced  from  the  base  of 
your  nose.  They  mean  a  lot,  and  they  crinkle  like  tiny  ripples 
in  a  pond  as  you  shiver  yourself  with  excitement — like  a 
silver  birch  in  the  breeze." 

He  drew  back,  surveyed  the  girl  near  the  gangpank,  the 
result  on  the  canvas,  then  swore  in  disgust. 

"I  can  mix  paints — but  not  that  mixture — and,  top  to  toe, 
it's  knit  into  the  line, — delicacy  and  strength,  same  as  the 
birch,  the  racehorse,  that  bird  out  there." 

Almost  "out  of  drawing,"  too,  seemed  that  possessive, 
"their  men."  Father,  uncle,  godfather,  the  old  one  perhaps, 


8  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

but  the  boy?  The  painter  caught  it  all, — the  full  cordiality 
for  the  captain,  then  the  half-turn,  the  flicker  of  a  glance  at 
his  companion,  the  shy  constraint,  the  convulsive  handclasp, 
and  the  sudden  release  of  it. 

"Hello,  Ben!"  and  "Hello,  Sally,"  that  was  all  that  was 
left  of  the  greetings,  so  carefully  conned-over  for  many 
nights,  on  the  quarter-deck  under  the  stars,  and  in  the  little 
white  house  up  the  hill. 

The  older  man  was  evidently  observant  of  more  signs 
than  those  of  the  weather,  for,  after  a  few  inquiries,  and  two 
or  three  playful  tweaks  of  her  ear,  quite  "in  character"  with 
the  captain-and-god  father  role,  correctly  allotted  him  by  the 
sentimental  stranger,  he  said  something  about  "supper,  later 
at  the  house,"  and  "tell  your  father  to  stow  away  that  tem 
per  of  his,  and  close  down  the  hatches,"  then  he  walked 
briskly  up  the  gangplank. 

With  the  waning  sun,  the  queer-hatted  one  folded  up  his 
tripod  and  kit,  and  walked  off  the  pier — landward  of  course, 
— and  quite  out  of  Sally  Fell's  life.  She  never  saw  him  or 
his  picture,  which  didn't  matter  much,  either,  for,  though  it 
has  been  shown  a  number  of  times  at  exhibitions,  it  was  an 
ideal,  lukewarm  sort  of  thing,  therefore  not  Sally  at  all. 

They  were  gone  before  him,  the  boy  and  girl,  past  the 
dingy  warehouses,  up  Water  Street,  and  Jeliffe,  and  Far- 
ragut,  to  Preble  Square,  where  the  silent  soldier  stood  at 
his  post,  his  rifle  over  his  arm,  as  it  had  lain  ever  since  the 
famous  Brigadier  Bartlett  had  taken  the  flag  from  his  visored 
cap,  over  fifty  years  ago. 

They  zigzagged  slowly  over  the  climbing  pavements,  at  a 


THE  PORT  9 

pace  that  finally  slackened  to  a  snail's,  although  she  was  sure 
she  could  bear  the  impatient  "tamp,  tamp,  tamp,"  of  an  old 
man's  cane  on  a  porch,  two  turns  to  the  right  and  three  to 
the  left  up  the  hill. 

She  was  shy,  he  inarticulate.  But  she  did  not  resent  his 
muteness,  as  she  turned  and  measured  him  fondly. 

No,  six  months  hadn't  changed  him — just  the  same  old 
Ben,  hands  fumbling  at  hips  for  pockets  that  never  were 
there.  But  those  broad  powerful  hands  were  very  deft  at 
furling  sails  and  repairing  winches.  And  those  blue  eyes 
which  lighted  his  rather  heavy  features,  even  saving  for  them 
a  sort  of  distinction,  though  they  fell  before  hers,  could  hold 
a  mutinous  crew.  Oh,  "Captain  Harve"  had  told  her,  called 
him  "a  man !" 

Suddenly  they  both  laughed — over  nothing  at  all — but 
quite  as  suddenly  hers  trailed  away. 

"Tamp,  tamp,  tamp!"  That  cane  was  forever  pricking 
the  bubble  of  her  happiness. 

"Tamp,  tamp,  tamp,  tamp!"  It  formed  the  heavy  motif 
of  her  life,  full  time  and  double  forty. 

She  slackened  the  pace  still  more,  at  the  same  time  con 
versationally  "going  about,"  to  get  away  as  far  as  possible 
from  that  motif. 

"You  haven't  told  me  the  latest,  Ben." 

"Latest  what?" 

"Oh  the  most  wonderful  thing  you  saw  on  the  voyage. 
You  always  tell  me,  you  know." 

"Well,"  he  thought  for  a  moment.  "Oh,  yes, — a  vanishing 
island." 


io  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"An  island  that  vanishes!" 

"Yes,  now  it's  here — hills  and  trees  and  rainbow  bays — 
and  then  all-of-a-sudden  it  drops  out  of  sight." 

"Over  the  edge  of  the  world?" 

"I  suppose." 

"But  you  don't  believe  that?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"And  you  haven't  seen  it?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"Now  you're  jollying  me." 

"No,  honest,  Sally,  I've  met  a  lot  of  men  you  wouldn't 
call  fools  who  swore  they'd  seen  it." 

"It's  too  spooky  to  be  true." 

"Of  course." 

"But  you  told  me  men  you  believed  swore  they'd  seen  it !" 

"So  they  did,  but  I  wouldn't  worry  about  it.  It's  nice 
enough  here." 

"But  it's  more  beautiful  there,  isn't  it?" 

"Where?  In  those  vanishing  islands?  I  haven't  seen 
them." 

"But  the  ones  you  have." 

"Yes,  it's  beautiful  enough,  but  it  suits  me  here." 

But  Sally,  though  complimented,  was  straining  at  her 
anchor. 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"Well  it's  warm,  and  the  people  are  dirty,  and  there  isn't 
much  plumbing " 

"That  isn't  the  way  you  told  it  before." 

'•Well,  how  did  I  begin?" 


THE  PORT  ii 


"It's  prettier  than  any  play  or  Heaven " 

"Yes " 

"And  there  are  royal  palms " 

"Yes " 

"And  wonderful  shells  and — oh,  Ben,  don't  be  mean, 
please." 

"And  sands  as  pink  as  coral,"  he  started  flood-tide  to  ap 
pease  her,  "and  tangled  forests  full  of  birds  that  squawk 
horribly  yet  have  the  most  scrumptious  feathers — classier 
colours  than  any  of  the  summer  boarders  sport.  And  the 
ocean  is  deep  but  clear  as  a  spring,  and  in  it  are  fish  so 
queer  they  look  like  little  jokes  of  God." 

"That's  it,  Ben,  the  way  you  used  to  tell  it!  But  does 
it  seem  real?  Isn't  it  all  like  a  dream?" 

He  thought  a  moment,  his  eyes  many  leagues  south.  But 
they  had  taken  her  with  him,  the  black,  star-pointers  for  the 
blue,  the  small  hand  resting  in  the  big  as  on  a  trusty  tiller. 

"It  does  seem  too  pretty  to  be  real,  but  it's  real  enough — 
the  storms  are  anyway,  and  the  fevers.  When  you  go  there, 
you're  in  another  world  as  beautiful  as  Heaven.  You  come 
back  home,  and  it  seems  far  away — then  you'd  swear  it  was 
all  a  dream.  You  see  it's  pretty  here  but — like  life."  They 
had  turned  and  were  gazing  down  the  hill  over  the  sloping 
roofs  which  descended,  each  like  the  step  in  a  staircase,  to 
the  sea. 

"Look  at  the  Light,  now,  and  the  harbour.  You  can  put 
your  finger  on  everything — pick  it  all  out  like  a  geometry 
problem.  Down  there  it's  just  as  clear,  but  it's  kind  of — ," 
he  groped  for  the  word,  "vague — so  rich  with  the  perfumes, 


12  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

and  flowers,  and  air  like  opium — and  a  feeling  like  there  was 
years  and  years  all  a-callin'  to  you  that  it's  no  use  a-worryin' 
— or  a-hurryin'." 

"They  say  men  forget  very  easily,  there." 

"Without  much  trouble,"  he  answered. 

"Did  you?" 

"Me?  No!  It's  the  drifters,  the  derelicts,  not  fellows 
with  anchors." 

All  the  allure  suddenly  came  back  for  Sally,  and  she  ex 
claimed,  "How  I'd  like  to  go!" 

"Tamp,  tamp,"  again 

"But  I  never  can,"  she  despairingly  finished. 

"Stranger  things  have  happened." 

"Than  that?    No,  Ben." 

"You  see — someday  I'll  take  you." 

She  went  a  little  vivid  at  this,  but  the  inarticulate  boy  had 
come  back. 

It  was  time,  for  they  were  at  the  Fell  gate,  and  Captain 
Bluster  was  hard  by. 


CHAPTER  II 
"FAIRWINDS"   AND   "BLUSTER" 

As  trim  and  as  trig  as  a  homeward-bound  ship — for  then, 
as  all  sailors  will  tell  you,  above  the  water-line  at  least,  they 
are  cleanest — was  the  Fell  place.  Clapboards,  cobbles,  and 
conch-shells  around  the  walks  and  flower-beds,  were  glisten 
ing  white;  so  also  the  fence  and  the  trunks  of  the  trees. 
For  colour-relief  there  were  green  shutters;  the  moss-grey 
of  a  pleasantly-sloping  roof ;  the  maroon  of  hollyhocks  and 
marigold  yellow  against  the  walls;  and,  over  towards  the 
orchard,  an  old  skiff,  green-painted,  with  a  cargo  of  old- 
fashioned  flowers,  foaming  in  myriad  hues  over  oarlocks  and 
gunwales. 

Captain  Fell,  or  "Ole  Cap'n  Bluster,"  to  use  the  villagers' 
soubriquet,  was  seated — or  rather  "set" — on  the  porch. 
Sighting  his  daughter's  convoy,  he  tossed  "The  Salthaven 
Log,  Founded  in  1809,"  in  the  corner,  and  puffed  down  the 
path  like  an  ineffectual  gale  upon  a  ship  cleared  for  rough 
weather. 

"Good-day,  sir" — it  was  a  dismissal,  not  a  greeting.  The 
white  hair  bristled  under  the  slightly-askew  visored  cap ;  the 
Adam's  apple  swelled  like  a  turkey-cock's;  his  choleric  face 
purpled ;  the  grey  whiskers  stood  out  in  the  blast  of  his 

13 


i4  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

wrath  like  two  sails  wing-and-wing ;  and  the  cane  and  square- 
toed  shoes  scrunched  the  gravel  ominously. 

As  he  bore  down  upon  them,  nautical  similes  fairly  oozed 
from  his  paunchy  blue  figure,  like  pitch  and  oakum  from  the 
blistering  seams  of  a  ship  in  the  tropics. 

"I  told  you  to  keep  clear  o'  my  place,  and  here  you  are 
no  sooner 'n  you  reach  port,  alongside  o'  my  gate,"  he  boomed 
at  Ben,  "you  sheer  off  .  .  ."  The  bombardment  died  in  a 
spluttered  chortle. 

"But,  Captain  Fell.     I " 

"Stow  your  gab,  sir!" 

The  girl's  hand  was  pleadingly  laid  on  her  father's.  He 
wasn't  an  awesome  or  impressive  personage  to  her,  just  an 
unreasonable  old  man,  a  spoiled  old  man.  She  was  angry, 
but  of  late  a  new  note — apoplectic,  threatening — had  crept 
into  that  full  roaring  boom  of  his — and  sometimes,  what  was 
more  touching,  a  quaver. 

"Father,  Ben's  my  oldest  friend  and " 

"Belay  that,  daughter,  I'm  skipper  o'  this  ship,  and  on  my 
own  quarter-deck."  And  he  drew  her  within  the  gate,  closing 
it  with  a  bang  over-pettish  for  so  dignified  an  officer,  but  a 
hint  sufficiently  explicit  for  Ben.  He  laughed  disgustedly 
and  turned  towards  the  street  as  Sally  marched,  her  shoulders 
up  in  what  would  have  seemed  mock  obedience  to  any  but 
the  Captain's  eyes.  The  old  man  planted  his  feet  sturdily 
enough  now,  and  the  quaver  wasn't  at  all  apparent.  The 
doctor  had  said  that  one  of  these  fits  might  carry  him  off. 
Sally  was  beginning  to  doubt  that  doctor — there  had  been 
so  many. 


"FAIRWINDS"  AND  "BLUSTER"  15 

Over  her  shoulders  the  boy  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  black 
eyes.  They  signalled  something.  From  old  custom  he  could 
read  that  signal,  and  answered  in  code. 

Half  way  up  the  cathedral  aisle  into  which  the  nobly 
groined  elms  transformed  the  street,  he  met  Captain  Brent, 
on  his  way  to  supper — at  Sally's. 

"Why  so  down  in  the  mouth,  Mr.  Boltwood?"  This 
formality  of  the  handle,  off-ship,  was  suspicious. 

"He's  turned  me  down  again,"  the  boy  muttered — in  love 
and  therefore  out  of  sorts  and  "out  of  character." 

"Point  just  a  little  closer  to  the  wind,  boy,  Hiram's  mostly 
blow."  And  his  chief  whistled  a  meditative  stave  or  two,  then 
as  if  he  had  found  a  solution  in  the  melody,  explained : 

"It  isn't  that  fool  grudges  against  your  dad — so  much — 
he's  afraid  of  losing  her —  And  that,"  he  added  a  bit 
wistfully,  if  a  man,  two-handed  and  upstanding  still  at  sixty, 
ever  suggests  such  a  thing,  "I  can  understand !" 

But  Ben,  blinded  by  the  selfishness  of  all  young  love, 
couldn't  understand. 

"He's  always  throwing  it  up  to  me,"  he  grumbled  on,  "it's 
getting  past  a  joke." 

The  Captain  looked  at  him ;  whistled  sharply. 

"By  the  great  Lord  Harry,  I  thought  you  had  sand !" 

The  first  mate  looked  sheepish,  and  scanned  the  horizon — 
rattling  good  officer  but  boy  after  all.  The  older  man  smiled 
in  amusement,  then  drove  the  barb  in  a  bit  deeper : 

"And  it  takes  that  to  win  women  as  well  as  ships — includ 
ing  fathers-in-law,"  he  added  as  necessary  after-thought. 

The  boy  straightened. 


16  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Didn't  know  nerve  went  with  them,"  referring  to  the 
first,  presumably. 

"You  didn't !  Well,  think  it  over."  And  the  captain,  too. 
closed  the  barring  gate. 

But  the  whimsical  wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes  be 
lied  the  curtness  of  his  retort.  However,  at  the  fifth  conch- 
shell  they  had  quite  disappeared,  as  he  ruminated  half  aloud. 

"What  was  it  that  wench  Portia  said — about  teach 
ing?  If  I'd  followed  mine  I  wouldn't  have  lost  her  mother, 
and  he  wouldn't  have  won  her."  The  whistling  stopped  alto 
gether.  "He  didn't  know  it  but  he  wore  her  out — killed  her. 
It  mustn't  happen  twice."  Then  he  added  a  strange  yet  not 
illogical  non-sequitur,  "Poor  Hiram !  But  that  was  long  ago 
— and — by  Jupiter!  she  lives  again  in  the  girl!" 

"Cap'n  Bluster"  was  goutily  recouched  on  the  porch,  his 
broad  back  to  the  gate  as  a  further  expression  of  his  resent 
ment.  At  that  slight  distance,  the  two  old  sea-dogs  resem 
bled  the  twin  stone  lions  that  flank  the  gateways  to  great 
estates,  or  old  andirons  before  a  fire.  A  little  nearer — and 
they  seemed  like  pieces  purchased  by  a  short-sighted  person 
in  different  shops,  and  which,  when  brought  home,  are  found 
not  quite  to  match.  Neither  did  they  in  figure  or  tempera 
ment,  but  they  were  one  in  their  quaint  old  oaths  and  their 
old  blue  uniforms,  and  in  their  love  for  the  Sea  and  Salt- 
haven  and  Sally.  Over  the  handling  of  the  first  and  third 
there  was  constant  dissension;  in  fact,  the  friendship  had 
been  cemented  by  a  feud  of  some  fifty  years'  standing,  a  con 
stant  guerilla  warfare  of  repartee,  with  reasonableness  on 
one  side,  violent  illogic  on  the  other. 


"FAIRWINDS"  AND  "BLUSTER"  17 

"Cap'n  Fairwinds,"  for  he,  too,  had  been  aptly  nicknamed 
by  the  salty  gossips  of  the  place,  was  square-set  but  not  too 
square — very  fit,  in  fact,  with  a  beard  still  brown;  above  it, 
a  complexion  all  red  and  leather.  The  full  lips  could  tauten 
on  the  bridge  in  a  nor'-easter,  but  off-watch  they  frequently 
puckered  in  a  whistle,  which  for  Sally  always  echoed  the 
wind  singing  through  the  rigging,  quite  as  the  eyes  reflected 
the  colour  of  the  waters  they  had  gazed  on  so  long.  That 
they  were  well  aware  of  all  that  was  going  on,  even  when  she 
was  not  their  target,  she  could  testify.  Around  their  corners 
were  those  little  marks,  like  the  tracks  of  game-birds  at  a 
spring,  sure  trails  of  shrewdness  and  humour — like  Sally's, 
too,  but  hers  were  mere  wraiths  of  wrinkles,  his,  leathery 
creases,  deeply  indented. 

She  was  on  the  top  steps  now  and,  hard  at  her  heels,  the 
gnarled  parent  trunk  of  which  she  seemed  so  strange  a  shoot. 

"Well,  you  old  barnacled  tramp !"  merely  the  Bluster  way 
of  saying  that  he  was  very  glad  to  see  an  old  friend,  but 
Sally's  greeting  quite  made  up  for  it. 

After  reminiscing  for  a  half-hour  or  so,  by  way  of 
strategy,  on  the  ports  and  events  of  the  voyage,  all  of  which 
a  retired  and  gouty  sea-captain  devoured  greedily,  Captain 
Fairwinds  proffered  some  excellent  tobacco,  a  custom  they 
had,  "of  swapping,"  like  Jerry  Reb  and  Johnny  Yank  be 
tween  hostilities. 

Puff,  puff,  puff,  he  watched  the  other's  signal-fires.  All 
seemed  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  so  he  broached  the  danger 
ous  subject: 

"What's  this  I  hear  about  young  Boltwood?" 


i8  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"No  good,  I'll  warrant,"  blared  the  other,  dropping  his 
jaw  and  pipe  in  suspicion. 

"It's  too  fine  weather  to  be  unreasonable,  Hiram."  He 
looked  around.  Sally  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  porch, 
trying,  this  way  and  that,  the  new  scarf  which  he  had 
brought  her  as  the  tribute  which  all  returning  captains  must 
render.  It  was  from  the  Argentine  and,  as  usual,  bright  red 
— in  fact,  as  Sally  afterwards  remarked  to  plump  Stella 
Appleby,  "It's  funny  how  men  always  choose  crimson  or 
scarlet — never  lavender,  or  mauve,  or  any  of  the  softer  tints. 
I  guess  they're  just  barbarians  after  all."  Anyway  the  com 
bination, — scarlet,  and  black  hair  and  eyes,  was  bewitching 
enough,  and  it  quite  satisfied  the  godfather.  He  bent  for 
ward  confidentially.  "He's  a  good  boy,  he'd  take  care  of  her, 
and — "  he  nodded  towards  the  pirouetting  scarlet  and  black 
again,  "he'd  keep  her  that  way.  We're  not  as  young  as  we 
once  were,  you  know." 

"Don't  interfere  there,  Harvey  Brent.  I  tell  you  I  don't 
like  the  Boltwood  timber — it  don't  build  good  ships." 

"What  are  you  trying,  anyway?  A  little  play  all  your 
own — nursing  a  grudge  against  an  old  man,  and  turning  his 
only  son  from  your  door,  and  all  the  time  spillin'  your  fool 
sailor's  lingo  all  over  the  stage.  Just  throw  in  a  few 
'Shiver-me-timbers,'  and  you  could  charge  admission.  I 
thought  you  were  a  real  sailor,  Hiram,  not  a  play 
actor!" 

The  wing-and-wing  whiskers  were  luffing  agitatedly,  and 
under  the  shaking  wattles  the  Adam's  apple  worked  convul 
sively,  like  a  floater  jerked  up  and  down  by  a  freshly-hooked 


"FAIRWINDS"  AND  "BLUSTER"  19 

fish.  Captain  Fairwinds  continued,  though  a  little  more 
gently : 

"If  we  hadn't  weathered  so  many  storms  together,  my 
old  friend,  I'd " 

"If  you  want  to  weather  any  more,  you'll  not  give  me 
any  more  opinions  on  this  head,  Captain  Brent." 

Now  the  latter 's  own  formality  with  Benjamin  had  been 
merely  jocular,  this  was  ominous.  His  eyes  narrowed,  and 
his  mouth  snapped  to  bob-stay  tautness.  The  argument  had 
always  ended  that  way,  Hiram  was  hopeless! 

All  women  attached  to  domineering  men  very  early  learn 
patience  and  tact,  also  its  first  principle, — that  the  sure 
Northwest  Passage  to  the  sunny  Orient  of  a  man's  "cussed 
nature"  lies  directly  through  an  old  canal,  called  the  Alimen 
tary. 

She  said  something  about  "supper,"  aiming  a  wink  at 
Captain  Harve — a  maneuver  quite  significant  of  her  differ 
ence  in  attitude  towards  the  two  old  men.  It  was  further 
noticeable  when  she  placed  an  affectionate  hand  on  a  shoulder 
of  each.  With  her  father,  as  with  Ben,  she  seemed  almost 
maternal ;  when  she  leaned  against  her  godfather  she  at  once 
slipped  back  into  the  child. 

Meanwhile  he  had  obeyed  that  wink  and  was  helping  the 
delightful  suspense  by  exclaiming: 

"Hiram,  I'll  play  you  a  rubber  of  Pitch  for  the  second 
helping.  And  I'll  bet  you  a  package  of  Honest  Long  Cut 
that  it's " 

"Gingerbread!"  roared  Cap'n  Bluster. 

"Spongecake!"  the  other. 


20  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"With  elderberry   pie  on  the  side !" 

"Ris'n  biscuit,  you  mean!" 

It  was  evidently  an  old  game  and  a  very  childish  one  for 
two  old  salts  who  had  outridden  nor'-easters  and  rounded 
the  Horn,  but  Sally  smiled  on  them  quite  maternally  again 
as  she  fixed  the  backgammon  board  across  her  father's  lap 
and  adjusted  the  hassock  under  his  tender  foot. 

They  were  shuffling  the  cards  when  Captain  Harve  called 
through  the  window — 

"Ho,  Sally,  if  it's  'Floating  Island,'  use  the  big  bowl,  and 
I'll  tell  you  about  some  I  sighted,  tonight." 

At  the  naive  pun  the  girl  smiled,  then  frowned  med 
itatively. 

"Ben  with  his  vanishing  islands,  and  Uncle  Harve  with 
his  that  float!"  She  sighed  and  went  over  to  the  table 
where  stood  the  delectable  dish. 

Wonderingly,  yet  wondering  why  she  wondered,  she  bent 
over  the  blue  bowl.  It  rimmed  a  creamy,  yellow  sea,  and 
in  it  floated  seven  tiny  islands,  all  snowy-white  and  delicately 
peaked  and  whorled. 

An  enchanted  region — uncharted  seas — and  her  own 
horizon  had  been  so  limited.  It  wasn't  that  the  sound  little 
cells  of  her  perfectly- functioning  system  clamoured  to  react 
to  the  titillating  shocks  of  city-life.  Her  routine  was  varied 
enough.  Never  had  she  tucked  a  yellow  pay-envelope  into 
the  treasure  cave  of  her  blouse,  but  many  times  over  she 
had  earned  it.  And  technique  it  does  need  to  run  a  home  on 
the  neatly-spliced  ends  of  a  captain's  pension,  and  as  much 
subtle  strategy  to  take  dictation  from  a  testy  old  man  as 


"FAIRWINDS"  AND  "BLUSTER"  21 

from  any  tired  baron  in  Wall  Street.  Her  life  was  too  full 
of  quiet  drama  ever  to  be  sluggish.  No  existence  can  be, 
that  is  made  up  of  farewells  and  waitings  and  welcomings- 
home  again,  quite  as  that  odd  fellow  Queer-Hat  had 
observed.  Oh,  she  loved  it  all — and  there  was  Ben,  and  she 
wouldn't  have  changed  it,  but 

"Tamp,  tamp,  tamp !"  It  came  through  the  window,  and, 
"I've  won.  Ho!  Cookee,  can't  you  hustle  that  grub?" 

She  didn't  obey  the  summons  at  once,  but  bent  over  the 
bowl  again.  And  before  her  eyes  it  seemed  for  the  moment 
to  expand,  until  it  became  the  blue,  ever-widening,  ever- 
retreating  horizon  of  the  ocean  itself,  rimming  a  golden  sea. 
And  before  her  eyes  swam  the  peaks,  all  snow  and  rose, 
of  fairy-like,  ethereal  islands,  floating,  vanishing,  beckoning, 
on  that  golden,  sun-smitten  sea. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  RED  BALDWIN 

IT  was  the  fifth  Sunday,  or  Sabbath  (for  it  was  always 
that  in  Salthaven)  since  Ben's  return.  The  sun  was  coppery. 
Even  the  landward  breeze  had  expired,  and  the  lightest  leaf 
seemed  to  weight  the  swooning  air.  Captain  Fell  sat,  jelled 
on  the  porch  and  quivering  with  heat. 

At  last  he  opened  his  eyes.  He  hadn't  been  asleep,  just 
slyly  cogitating  a  plan,  as  Sally  knew  from  the  next  question : 

"Sally,  will  you  swap  a  promise  with  me?" 

"Oh,  Father,  do  you  mean  it?" 

"Yes,  even  if  it's  the  worst  fool  contraption  ever  a  female 
wanted,  you  can  have  it." 

"Cross  your  heart?" 

Now  if  frequently  he  talked  to  her  as  a  child,  it  was 
because  he  thought  she  was  one,  while  she  kept  her  con 
versation  in  kind  because  she  knew  lie  ivas.  So  with  a 
maternal  tolerance,  her  eyes  followed  the  puffy  fingers  as 
they  registered  the  vow. 

"Now,  do  you  know  what  it  is?" 

"Of  course,  haven't  you  asked  me  often  enough  the  past 
six  months?  A  little  benzine  gig  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes 
of  honest  people  that  walk,  and  spoil  the  wash  on  Mondays." 


THE  RED  BALDWIN  23 

And  how  his  sea-salted  soul  hated  them !  Like  him,  thought 
Sally.  Wherever  was  he  to  get  the  money  for  an  auto 
mobile?  It  was  lucky  he  had  a  woman  (!)  to  handle  what 
he  had!  But  there  was  a  method  in  his  madness,  also  one 
in  hers. 

"No,  it's  permission  for  Ben  to  come  and  see  me,"  she 
returned  demurely,  but  triumphantly. 

His  mouth  fell  open. 

"You  little  fox!"  he  sputtered  in  admiration,  then  he 
stormed — "/ — will — not !" 

"But  you  promised!" 

"I  said  the  thing  you  wanted — permission  to  see  a  fool 
boy  isn't  a  thing.  It's  got  .to  be  something  you  can  feel, 
handle,  touch.  See  my  girl?" 

It  was  his  turn  to  be  triumphant,  and  the  cane  stamped 
victoriously  into  the  house. 

However  he  must  have  relented  in  part,  for  the  red-wattled 
face  again  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Changed  your  mind,  Daughter?  Shall  I  order  that  dod- 
gasted  devil's  gig?" 

"No  thank  you." 

She  looked  up  at  the  tree.  Her  eyes  blinked  rapidly, 
though  the  big  Baldwin  gave  plenty  of  shade. 

Suddenly  they  were  focussed  on  that  gate,  which  some 
how  seemed  to  have  a  personality  of  its  own.  To  strangers 
its  click  might  always  be  in  one  key,  but  she  could  distinguish 
many  changes  in  pitch,  and  varying  intimations.  It  always 
served  as  a  sort  of  wooden  butler  announcing  new  arrivals. 

Phil  Huntington  slammed  it  boldly.    He  always  did  every- 


24  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

thing  with  that  air  of  smiling  audacity  which  from  time 
immemorial  has  been  reputed  to  charm  the  feminine  heart. 
And  he  was  good  to  look  at, — brown,  slender,  and  wiry,  with 
a  straight-enough,  posturesque  profile,  challenging  feminine 
admiration,  likewise  sometimes  the  equally  ardent  masculine 
desire  to  despoil  it,  and  in  his  gait  a  perfect  blending  of 
two  philosophies, — the  classical  "carpe  diem"  and  the  more 
synchronistic  "pep." 

However,  opinions  differed  about  him.  To  nervous 
Salthaven  mothers  "that  Philip  Huntington"  was  a  cogent 
reason  for  adding  to  their  prayers  for  "those  that  go  down 
to  the  sea  in  ships,"  another  for  "those  that  go  down  to  big 
cities  in  trains."  Cap'n  Bluster  approved  him — or  his  pros 
pects;  Cap'n  Fairwinds  disliked  him  cordially.  And  even 
silent  Ben  had  been  known  to  allude — rather  witheringly — to 
"the  dude." 

As  for  Sally,  she  was  sure  she  detected  a  little  over-con 
sciousness  and  pride  in  two  things,  one  in  the  fact  that  his 
father  owned  the  large  ship-building  plant  at  New  Bedford, 
as  well  as  the  pretentious  home  on  the  hill,  the  other,  in  that 
fatal  facility  which  his  room-mate  had  once  described  as 
"getting  away  with  murder."  He  had  just  achieved  a  master 
stroke  in  this  fine  art, — nothing  less  than  the  interception  of 
both  the  Dean's  and  Registrar's  letters  which  were  to 
announce  his  ignominious  and  ultimate  flunking  at  Yale.  His 
allowance  therefore  secure  for  the  summer,  he  was  as 
triumphant  as  her  father,  and  needed  a  taking  down,  "come 
uppance,"  the  villagers  would  have  called  it. 

So  she  vouchsafed  him  only  a  most  nonchalant  "hello," 


THE  RED  BALDWIN  25 

and  signed  him  to  a  place  beside  her  on  the  rustic  seat  under 
the  apple-tree.  He  would  have  taken  it  anyway. 

Her  caller  promptly  and  characteristically  resented  her 
inattention  to  His  Princeship,  and  particularly  to  that  new 
straw  and  its  bright  fraternity  band. 

"Welcome  to  our  city !"  he  jeered  sarcastically,  twirling  the 
ribbon  into  a  rainbow  gyroscope,  then, — "What's  that  you're 
doing,  there?" 

Absent-mindedly  she  withdrew  her  foot  from  the  bare 
patch  between  the  ridged  roots  and  surveyed  the  hieroglyphics 
she  had  been  tracing.  There,  they  were, — seven  little  cones 
in  seven  circles.  Funny,  wasn't  it?  All  night  long  she  had 
been  pursuing  them — or  they  her — entrancing,  beautiful,  and 
always  beckoning.  Through  her  dreams  the  lovely  shining 
things  had  floated  on  the  giant  sea-saucer.  Sometimes  they 
formed  strange  fantastic  figures,  and  once  they  had  even 
fallen  in  line  and  like  children  "snapped  the  whip."  And 
in  the  moment  that  always  comes  between  complete  uncon 
sciousness  and  half-awaking,  they  had  dropped  quite  over 
the  edge  of  the  sea-saucer,  vanishing  into  a  golden  void. 
And  she  had  knelt  on  the  edge,  looking  over  to  see  what 
could  be  underneath — and  was  disappointed  because  she 
could  not  see. 

But  "Nothing,"  was  all  she  answered  Phil. 

Then,  for  just  at  this  unpropitious  moment  Ben  must 
come  up  the  street,  she  looked  at  her  father,  all  curves  and 
parabola  outlines  like  some  recumbent  hippo  of  Lewis 
Carroll's  fancy.  The  audible  assurance  that  he  was  asleep 
was  really  so  overpowering  that  a  quaint  conceit  of  her 


26  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

childhood  came  back, — he  would  make  such  a  fine  illustration 
in  the  Picture  Bible  for  that  story  of  the  Fall  of  Jericho. 
So  she  waved  to  Ben,  and  forthwith  entered  into  that  game 
called,  in  different  ages,  banter,  persiflage,  repartee — "jolly 
ing"  in  hers — at  which,  for  all  her  straightforwardness,  she 
was  quite  as  expert  as  Master  Phil. 

The  banished  first  mate  sauntered  by;  looked  chagrined, 
bashful,  wistful,  and  envious,  all  at  once;  then  gazed  up  at 
the  apple-tree.  The  reddening  Baldwins  offered  a  suggestion 
which,  seated  upon  an  upturned  skiff,  a  little  way  up  the 
street,  he  promptly  began  to  put  into  execution. 

First  he  halved  the  apple  very  carefully,  then  removed  the 
core.  On  the  leaf  of  a  pocket  log-book  he  wrote  something, 
tore  out  the  page,  placed  it  in  the  cavity,  and  fitted  the  two 
halves  together.  Picking  up  a  shingle,  he  made  two  long 
skewers,  thrusting  them  through  the  apple  so  that  the  halves 
would  not  part;  and  finished  the  job  by  nipping  off  the 
protruding  ends  of  the  skewers. 

A  minute  later  a  perfectly  harmless  apple  fell  into  Sally's 
lap.  The  Captain  still  slept  and  Master  Phil  did  not  notice 
the  premature  fall,  but  Sally,  womanlike,  connected  a  man 
with  that  apple.  Glancing  over  her  shoulder,  she  saw  Ben, 
who  nodded  and  disappeared  under  the  green  tunnel  of  the 
elms. 

Now  only  a  faint  radiance  powdered  them  with  gold. 

Sally  rose. 

"Excuse  me,  Phil,  I  must  get  supper." 

She  didn't  ask  him  to  stay,  thus  doing  violence  to  Salthaven 
hospitality,  but  she  had  to  examine  that  apple. 


THE  RED  BALDWIN  27 

He  held  her  hand  a  little  longer  than  was  necessary  for  an 
ordinary  farewell.  She  wriggled  her  fingers  out  of  his  clasp. 

"There,  Phil,  you're  not  going  away  for  a  year,  you  know, 
and,"  she  added  to  herself  as  she  skipped  up  the  steps,  "I'm 
afraid — someone  else  is." 

The  western  sky  through  the  kitchen  window  glowed  no 
more  rosily  than  her  cheeks,  or  the  apple,  as  she  groped  for 
the  note  inside. 

"Dear  Sally,"  it  read,  "I  sail  Monday.  Won't  you  meet 
me  tonight  at  eight  and  walk  to  the  Light?  As  ever — Ben." 


CHAPTER  IV 
SHADOWS 

INTO  Water  Street,  which  runs  along  the  harbour  front, 
irregular  alleys  trickle,  and  at  the  corners  of  two  of  these, 
fronting  the  five-storied  warehouses,  is  a  coagulation  of  low- 
ceilinged,  dark  saloons,  a  patch  upon  the  whiteness  of  Salt- 
haven.  Tom  Grogan's,  the  most  notorious,  was,  of  course, 
officially  closed  for  the  seventh  day  of  the  week,  but  just 
before  moonrise,  three  shadows  seemed  to  detach  themselves 
from  the  yard  at  the  rear,  and  stole  up  the  passageway, 
singlefile  because  of  its  narrowness. 

"He  said  tonight,"  said  the  first,  assuming  form  and  voice. 

"At  eight  bells  at  Ole  Man  Veldmann's,"  the  second 
shadow,  broad-shouldered  and  hulking  like  the  first,  and 
with  the  same  pugilistic  crouch.  Then  he  grumbled, — 
"Vat  the  tinhorn  tank?  He  always  keep  us  vaitin'." 

"Ease  off,  Swedie,  he's  no uv  a  tinhorn," 

admonished  the  third,  a  little  weazened  figure  of  a  man, 
"an'  don't  ye  go  monkeyin'  with  him.  Yuh'd  better  try  prac- 
tisin'  on  a buzz  saw  fust." 

They  turned  as  a  footfall  sounded  on  the  rough  cobbles. 

"It's  him,  all  right." 

The  fourth  shadow  rounded  the  corner,  taller  than  the 

28 


SHADOWS  29 

other  three,  more  cosmopolitan  in  carriage.  The  voice,  too, 
though  it  gave  the  few  low  directions  with  a  roughness  and 
menace,  assumed  for  the  sake  of  command,  was  smoother 
and  ice-cold.  Even  his  silhouette  seemed  more  crisply  cut. 

"Will  Huntington  show  up?"  he  asked. 

"Couldn't  keep  him  away,"  the  first  responded,  "he's 
spilin'  to  win  back  some  u'  that  wad  he  lost  the  other  night." 

"Well,  start  things  when  I  give  the  signal — just  throw  a 
scare  into  him,  but  don't  beat  him  up."  Then,  as  in  the  teeth 
of  the  wind  that  blew  up  the  alley,  he  lighted  his  cigarette 
with  a  deftness  that  somehow  seemed  consonant  with  the 
crispness  of  his  voice,  of  his  very  silhouette,  and  symbolic  of 
skill  in  many  things,  he  added, — "Use  your  usual  discretion. 
Pete." 

"All  right,  cap,  we're  on." 

He  left,  and  a  little  later,  the  trio  lounged  out  of  the  alley, 
and  sauntered  towards  the  beach. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  LIGHT 

SALLY'S  toes  beat  an  impatient  tattoo.  There  was  such  a 
vasty  depth  under  that  blue  coat.  A  large  pitcher  of  milk, 
a  goodly  portion  of  quivering  currant  jelly,  one  snow-white 
wheaten  loaf,  another  of  golden-brown  gingerbread — but  at 
last  even  the  Captain  was  satisfied. 

Then  a  whisk,  and  the  blue  willow  ware  dishes  were  on  the 
freshly-papered  shelves. 

"Sixteen  knots  an  hour,"  he  was  grunting.  Did  he 
suspect!  All-of -a-flutter  she  tried  to  read.  Seven-fifteen, 
seven-thirty,  the  old  clock  chimed,  then  a  quarter  to  eight. 

No,  thank  Heaven,  he  couldn't  for  there,  with  the  eight 
strokes,  he  was  puffing  up  the  stairs,  she  dutifully  after  him. 

She  leaned  out  of  the  window  and  listened.  The  crickets 
were  making  fiddles  of  themselves  as  usual;  the  tree-frogs 
were  in  full  chime,  like  far-off  sleigh-bells ;  and — snap — a 
board  creaked  in  the  walk  !  But  there  they  were,  at  last  — the 
trumpets  of  Jericho,  coming  full  blast  from  her  father's 
window. 

Swiftly  she  climbed  over  the  sill  and  clambered  down  the 
trellis,  crushing  the  honey-suckle  until  it  gave  forth  a  sweeter 
fragrance. 

30 


THE  LIGHT  31 

Then  the  old  gate  clucked  "good  luck"  behind  them,  and 
they  stole  down  the  street  under  the  elms  whose  very 
shadows  seemed  kindly  and  protecting.  Through  the  leaves 
the  little  slice  of  moon  kept  pace  with  them. 

But  all  she  said  was  : 

"Well,  I'm  here,  Ben." 

And  he : 

"Thank  you  for  coming,  Sally." 

There  was  that  shyness  of  youth  that  kept  them  silent, 
but  her  hand  fluttered  into  the  curve  of  his  arm,  and  the 
nearness  was  very  sweet. 

Now  the  houses  were  a  little  further  apart,  and  they  could 
hear  the  murmur  of  the  breakers  on  the  beach.  They  reached 
its  white  slope,  and  the  murmur  deepened  to  a  musical 
thunder.  A  moment  they  stood  in  awe  at  the  scene — a  little 
in  awe  of  each  other. 

Then  Sally  broke  the  spell.  "I'll  beat  you  to  the  next 
rock,"  she  called,  and  taking  off  her  Tarn  o'  shanter,  her 
hair  flying  free  in  the  breeze,  she  dashed  over  the  shingle. 

He  gained  on  her,  but  she  reached  it  a  little  ahead,  when 
suddenly  she  slipped  on  a  moss-covered  boulder,  and  he 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

A  moment  she  trembled  in  them,  then,  half -frightened  at 
the  commingled  beating,  withdrew. 

And  again  they  were  silent  till  they  reached  the  great 
rock. 

Above  them  the  great  white  eye  of  the  Lighthouse  turned 
and  turned  as  it  had  for  so  many  years,  now  lighting  up  the 
expanse  of  the  ocean,  again  leaving  it  in  darkness. 


32  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Now  it  was  he  that  broke  the  happy  silence. 

"I  can't  stand  it,  Sally,"  he  said. 

"Stand  what,  Ben?" 

"Being  kept  away  from  you,  and  seeing — that" — he  caught 
himself,  he'd  say  that  to  his  face. 

"It  isn't  my  fault,  Ben.  See  what  I've  done  for  you 
tonight.  If  Father  finds  out,  I  don't  know  what  will 
happen." 

She  looked  up  at  the  white,  circling  eye. 

"Oh,  Ben,  look  at  the  poor  sea  bird,  flying  against  the 
Light." 

Then  even  steady,  prosaic  Ben  grew  poetic,  such  magic 
has  Love. 

"You're  the  light,  Sally,  and  I'm  the  wandering  bird." 

She  shivered  a  little,  suddenly  seeing  many  things,  such  as 
the  daughters  of  a  race  of  sailors  see  in  their  frightened 
dreams — visions  of  storms  and  broken  ships  and  men.  She 
trembled  and  he  put  his  arm  around  her. 

She  had  not  known  her  own  heart,  perhaps  she  did  not 
fully  know  it  now.  But  the  spell  of  youth  and  the  night  was 
on  her — and  the  spell  of  his  presence.  The  protection  of  his 
arm,  too,  was  comforting,  so  when,  his  voice  a  little  thick  and 
husky  with  feeling,  he  asked  :  "Sally,  will  you  wait  for  me  ?" 
her  heart  stood  still  for  one  fleeting  second,  then  she 
answered  timidly: 

"Yes,  Ben." 

He  kissed  the  black  hair  tenderly,  then  the  lips — the  shy 
sweet  kiss  of  first  love. 


THE  LIGHT 


33 


Then  they  walked  home  under  the  stars. 

And  the  lone  figure  that  had  been  watching  them  rose 
from  the  shadow  of  the  rocks  and  sauntered  toward  the 
deserted  shack. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  DICERS 

PHILIP  knocked.  The  corner  of  the  oiled  paper  which  half 
concealed  the  light  within  the  shack  was  lifted,  a  blood-shot 
eye  applied  to  the  chink,  and  he  was  admitted  into  the 
uncertain  glow  of  a  low-hanging  lantern,  flickering  on  three 
very  diverse  and  ugly  figures  sprawled  out  on  the  bunk  and 
the  floor. 

"Why  if  it  ain't  m'lud  Chesty  field  come  to  pay  us  a  call ! 
Here,  Swedie,  take  his  card,"  said  the  husky  at  the  door, 
proffering  a  flask.  "Yer  good  health,  m'lud." 

The  ceremonial  was  accompanied  by  a  bow  whose  irony 
Master  Philip  chose  to  ignore  as  a  princeling  might  the 
jeers  of  a  Whitechapel  mob.  With  something  of  the  gesture 
with  which  the  royal  victim  would  have  flicked  an  imaginary 
bit  of  dust  from  a  lace  cuff,  the  youth  adjusted  his  tie,  with 
a  request  to  "cut  the  comedy,  Pete,"  and  looked  scornfully  at 
the  speaker, — a  beamy,  ox-shouldered  hulk  of  a  man,  with  a 
sailor's  legs,  a  mechanic's  smeared  hands,  and  a  pugilist  neck 
and  jowl.  Over  these  a  seaming  scar,  the  result  of  an  old 
boiler  explosion,  ran  to  the  puffed  ear.  The  same  catastrophe 
had  marked  him  with  a  still  more  peculiar  branding — a 
circular  indentation  stamped  squarely  in  the  center  of  his 

34 


THE  DICERS  35 

forehead  by  a  red-hot  flying  burr.  Its  perfect  resemblance 
to  the  call  signals  in  old-fashioned  hotel  rooms  had  stamped 
on  him  quite  as  indelibly  the  nickname,  "Pushbutton  Pete." 

"But  yuh  ain't  a-takin'  yer  licker,"  he  urged,  edging 
towards  Phil,  who  stood  fascinated  by  that  baleful  mark  of 
Cain. 

Recovering,  he  accepted  the  flask,  and  gulped  down  a  swal 
low  or  two  with  an  attempted  nonchalance,  immediately 
belied  by  the  spasmodic  twitching  of  his  throat,  to  the  delight 
of  the  old  man  in  the  corner,  a  weazened  old  fellow,  bent  of 
back  but  strong  in  spite  of  seventy  years'  wandering  the 
globe  as  cookee,  cook,  smuggler,  pearl-thief,  and  general  odd- 
job  man  of  the  seas. 

"Hold  'er,  sonny,  hold  'er,"  he  cried,  slapping  his  knee, 
then  chortled, — "Steward,  bring  yer  bowl." 

Philip  turned  on  him  disdainfully. 

"I'm  used  to  a  gentleman's  drink — not  this  shellac." 

"Ho  ho,"  shrieked  the  old  fellow,  "the  blankety  son  of  a 
sea-cook  calls  hisself  a  gentleman !" 

"Not  so  gay,  old  top,  or  you  might  get  run  out  of  town," 
Philip  chided  him,  toploftily,  as  a  lordly  young  sophomore  a 
freshman  for  some  breach  of  campus  etiquette. 

"That's  it,  Bub,  lace  it  into  him,"  encouraged  Pushbutton 
Pete  with  a  wink — and  a  stranger  would  have  promptly  con 
ceived  a  very  different  figure  for  the  situation. 

Although  the  threat  of  banishment  might  have  held  a  very 
real  sting,  for,  as  folks  in  Salthaven  guessed,  Old  Man 
Veldmann  repaired  to  his  shack  only  for  purpose  of  sanctuary, 
it  seemed  to  afford  him  infinite  amusement.  His  light-green 


36  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

eyes  blinked,  and  through  his  wicked  rusty  saw  of  a  mouth, 
he  started  a  flow  of  Gargantuan  epithet  and  Nicotian  lava — 
all  accurately  gauged — constant  eruptions  of  which  had 
stained  the  natural  silver  of  his  Oom  Paul  whiskers  a  sulphur 
yellow.  But  he  was  very  diverting  in  his  ugliness,  and 
each  epithet,  grotesque  gesture,  and  grimace  was  flavoured 
with  a  childlike  yet  diabolical  air  of  gaminerie.  He  seemed 
immortal  in  his  youth  and  wickedness,  "too  old,"  folks  said, 
"and  too  ornery  to  die." 

The  term,  "gentleman,"  stuck  in  his  ancient  craw,  and 
thereon  he  was  haranguing  the  man  on  the  bunk,  with  unholy 
glee,  spiced  with  malice — for  the  boy's  benefit. 

"What's  yer  idee,  Swedie,  uv  a  gentleman?  How  would 
yer  define  it?  Now  I  affirm — havin'  a  prejoodice  agin 
swearin' — that  it's  a  thin-skinned,  white-copussled  shadder 

uv  a  man  who  cops  all  the  swag,  while  us 

does  all  the  dirty  work." 

The  man  on  the  bunk,  who  had  been  bending  forward  so 
that  only  the  broad  back  and  the  bare  biceps  bulking  large 
under  the  sleeveless  undershirt,  were  heretofore  visible, 
raised  his  head.  It  was  bullet-shaped,  covered  with  light 
hair,  cropped  short. 

"Ay  tank  so,"  he  muttered.  But  he  was  not  so  stupid  as 
he  seemed.  The  wide  vacuous  mouth  looked  harmless 
enough.  But  the  eyes  had  the  unpleasant  shade  of  light  blue, 
with  the  disquieting  trick  of  immediately  shifting  when  full- 
met,  whether  or  not  he  was  afraid  of  the  gazer.  Because  of 
the  perennial  sanguineness  of  complexion,  he  was  called  "The 
Pink  Swede." 


THE  DICERS  37 

For  the  moment  Philip  was  too  befuddled  to  resent  the 
insult.  Besides,  he  was  eager  for  that  relaxation  for  which 
he  had  come,  and  not  to  be  found  in  Sabbath  Salthaven,  and 
perhaps  also  anxious  to  retrieve  his  reputation  as  "a  man 
among  men."  So  he  inquired  with  a  bit  of  a  swagger : 

"How're  they  rolling  tonight,  Pink  ?" 

"Smooth,  sonny,  smooth,"  interposed  the  old  man,  reaching 
under  his  flannel  shirt,  "looky  there,  my  gentleman's  whelp !" 
He  shook  a  small  leather  bag,  hung  by  a  soiled  string  from 
his  corded  neck.  "My  amoolet — I'm  a  Drooid  by  religion — 
studied  'em  all,  an'  Drooids  is  the  most  sensible — "  Then 
he  undid  the  bag  and  stroked  the  tiny  ivory  cubes.  "Them's 
human — got  'em  down  Madagascar  way — carved  outen  the 

back  teeth  o'  a  big  buck  nigger.  The  dirty tried 

to  kill  me  with  a  kriss — pizened.  Y'  can  see  his  mark 
there — "  across  the  chest,  yellowed  and  shrunk  like  a  lean 
roosting-fowl,  ran  a  foot-long  ragged  scar — "but  I  done  him 
proper " 

He  finished  the  string  of  characterizations  he  deemed  fit 
ting,  then  went  on —  "I  got  wind  uv  their  plannin'  a  little  fest 
— cannybals,  y'know — and  Dick  Hosford,  the  bosun,  was  sick 
uv  a  fever.  I  knowed  he  was  goin  to  die  so,  just  afore  his 
death-rattle,  I  filled  him  full  o'  pizen.  It  was  all  friendly- 
like,  for  I  knowed  Dick  would  be  glad  to  do  an  old  matey  a 
good  turn,  seein'  he  was  agoin'  to  die  anyway. 

"Next  morning  I  toted  his  corp  ashore  in  the  dingy,  an' 
served  him  up,  hot  an'  smokin'  to  them  cannybals.  It  wasn't 
long  afore  the  hull  fambly,  includin'  my  black  friend,  his  nex'- 
o'-kin,  an'  all  the  real  distant  ones,  lay  rottin'  in  the  jungle. 


38  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Now  I  ask  yer,  as  one  gentleman  to  another,"  bowing 
mockingly  to  Phil,  "whether  or  not  I  done  him  proper." 

"Ay  tank  so,"  stolidly  answered  the  Pink  Swede,  smooth 
ing  the  blanket  on  the  bunk,  a  strategy  which  the  boy  was 
too  much  of  an  amateur  to  protest. 

At  first,  as  always  with  the  about  to  be  shorn,  the  luck 
was  his.  But  just  as  the  pile  of  green  rectangles,  greasy  and 
soiled  but  good  currency  nevertheless,  assumed  fair  propor 
tions  in  front  of  the  boy,  there  was  a  sound  as  of  pebbles 
thrown  against  the  door  and  little  square  of  window. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  a  brace  o'  spooks,"  answered  Pete,  "shoot,  Bub,  it's 
yer  roll." 

Suddenly  the  luck  veered.  It  was  strange  how  refractorily 
the  little  cubes  tumbled  for  the  youth.  On  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  blanket,  the  squat  but  skilful  fingers  of  Pete 
and  the  Swede,  holding  the  dice  in  just  the  right  way,  were 
rolling  whatever  combinations  they  wished.  Even  the  yellow 
talons  of  the  old  man  held  magic. 

"Come  on,  ye  hell's  pups,  ye  devil's  back  teeth,"  he  was 
yelling  his  war  cry  on  all-fours,  "Nacheralls,  by  ." 

So  on  it  went  until  the  pile  of  greenbacks,  and  the  boy's 
watch  and  scarf-pin  to  boot,  were  divided  with  a  suspicious 
equity  among  the  three. 

By  now  the  vile  whiskey  which  he  had  resampled,  despite 
his  reflections  on  its  quality,  had  set  his  temper  sparking. 
He  picked  up  the  dice,  shook  them  in  his  hand,  and  sneered : 

"Loaded!" 

"Them  dice  is  not  loaded,"  retorted  Pete,  shoving  his  jowl 


THE  DICERS  39 

within  an  inch  of  Phil's.  The  strange  scar  on  the  forehead, 
usually  white,  glowed  vividly.  Then  he  turned  and  unpeeled 
a  derisive  wink  at  his  companions.  "What'll  I  do,  spank 
Mamma's  boy  or  lick  'ell  out  of  him  ?" 

"You  won't  lick  any  hell  out  of  me,"  raged  the  boy,  and 
led  for  that  baleful  scar. 

Some  skill  he  had,  but  all  in  a  gentle  game  called  "spar 
ring,"  in  which  "points"  and  light  smarting  taps  scored, 
instead  of  such  smashing  jolts  as  those  from  Pete's  burly 
fists.  The  counter  staggered  him,  and  they  mixed  it,  shifting 
around  the  narrow  cabin  until  Pete's  head  struck  the  hanging 
lantern.  Old  Man  Veldmann  seized  it  and  mounted  an 
upturned  cask,  holding  the  light  so  that  it  always  flickered  on 
the  slighter  of  the  two  antagonists. 

In  keen  delight  he  watched  them,  alternately  ejaculating 
tobacco-juice  and  adjectives,  shifting  his  shoulders  and 
shadow-boxing  with  his  free  fist  in  unconscious  imitation  of 
Pete. 

"A  pretty  one ;  smash  him,  ye  . 

Neat,  neat,  my  brave  bucko !  Ouch,  but  it's  chile-murder ! 
— By — but  that  drew  the  pretty  red  juice!  Mess  up  the 
damned  dude — spoil  his  bloody  beauty,  ye  lazy  lubber, 
ye've  stalled  long  enough —  Hell's  bells — that  went 
home!" 

A  jab  or  two  from  Pete;  a  clinch;  a  little  infighting  in  the 
light  of  the  swaying  lantern;  then  they  broke,  and  stood 
feinting  and  shifting  for  a  moment.  Pete  loosed  a  swing 
for  Phil's  body — the  latter  dropped  his  guard  a  bit  low — 
and  the  roustabout  drove  his  huge  right  to  the  vital  point 


40  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Phil  had  just  missed.  The  boy  crumpled  up  on  the  foul, 
evil-smelling  fishnet  in  the  corner. 

The  victor  kicked  him  with  his  foot.  "Damn  him,  I've 
sprained  my  thumb !" 

"Yuh  ain't  got  no  kick  comin'  as  I  see,"  said  the  old 
fellow,  "the  young  rooster  was  outweighed  by  forty  pound, 
but  he  was  game  as  a  bantam." 

Still  he  and  the  Pink  Swede  trussed  the  fallen  none  the 
less  viciously  for  that. 

The  door  opened  and  a  tall  stranger  entered,  as  Phil  began 
to  stir  in  his  bonds.  He  bent  over  the  boy. 

"The  Chesterfield  Kid !  Hmmm,  those  classic  features  are 
messed  up  considerable." 

Seeing  the  boy's  eyes  open,  he  turned  on  the  trio,  and  with 
a  well-dissembled  arraignment  ordered  them  to  untie  him. 

They  raised  Phil,  still  rocking  a  little,  and  seated  him  on 
the  one  spavined  chair.  But  his  head  cleared  suddenly,  and 
he  was  shrewd  enough  to  note  their  suspiciously  prompt  and 
grinning  obedience.  He  looked  up  at  the  new-comer. 

"Some  of   your  pretty  work,   MacAllister." 

"That's  gratitude  for  you,"  the  stranger  replied,  "if  I 
hadn't  blown  in  just  now,  these  gentlemen,"  indicating  the 
three  sarcastically,  "would  have  shanghaied  you." 

"All  very  effectively  staged,  Mr.  Belasco." 

MacAllister  pointed  to  the  door,  with  a  request  to  the 
others  to  "take  the  air."  And  again  they  promptly  obeyed, 
Pete  grumbling  as  they  flung  themselves  on  the  sands  a 
stone's-throw  from  the  shack: 

"What's  the  chief  atter  now,  pennies  from  the  kid  ?" 


THE  DICERS  41 

The  old  man  crooked  his  shoulder  at  a  steam-yacht  riding 
at  anchor  in  the  harbour. 

"Damn  pretty  boat,  that,  Petie." 

Pete  whistled. 

"So  that's  his  game !" 

"Ay  tank  so,"  said  the  Pink  Swede  simply. 

Within,  Philip  was  gazing  sullenly  at  the  blackleg  and 
gambler.  To  the  eye  of  an  unbiased  spectator  he  would 
have  been  infinitely  more  satisfying  than  most  of  his  ilk, 
drab  fellows  enough  outwardly  and  designedly  unobtrusive. 
MacAllister  was  ever  smooth,  polished,  immaculate.  His 
well-fitting  suit,  eyes,  and  close-trimmed  mustache  were 
black,  all  contrasting  strangely  with  the  deadwhite  of  his 
complexion.  In  his  dark  scarf  sparkled  a  three-carat  stone, 
bluewhite  and  cold;  its  twin  on  a  hand  manicured  to  an 
alabaster  finish,  yet  somehow  suggesting  a  high  degree  of 
dexterity  and  power. 

"Huntington,  you  can  do  me  a  favour,  in  return  for  the 
one  I've  just  done  you,  and  a  lot  more  it  isn't  necessary  to 
itemize." 

"A  pretty  lot  of  favours  you've  done  me,  MacAllister." 

"Have  it  your  way,  then,  but  you  wouldn't  have  enjoyed 
maggoty  bread  and  worm-eaten  pork  on  a  trip  to  Rio." 
The  smooth  deft  fingers  extended  a  cigarette-case.  "Try 
one — they're  French — now,  as  it  happens  I'm  a  little  short, 
and—" 

"N-o-t-h-i-n-g  d-o-i-n-g!  MacAllister." 

"Never  'pass'  before  you  look  at  your  cards,  my  dear 
boy.  Isn't  my  golden  silence  worth  something — in  gold?" 


42  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

He  flicked  the  ash  on  the  floor,  watching  it  fall  as  if 
computing  to  a  milligram  just  how  much  it  was  worth. 
Then  he  looked  wistfully  up  at  the  ceiling. 

"It  really  is  touching." 

"Besides  your  charming  but  nervy  self,  what  is?" 

"Oh  the  love  of  your  father  for  his  only  son  and  heir — 
I — wonder  how  much  he'd  appreciate  a  little  news — of  a 
certain  night  at  Napoli's,  for  instance — or  that  little  game 
at  Smith's,  or  that  coffee-coloured  girl  they  bill  as  'Rosetta' — 
How  do  you  like  the  flavour,"  he  enquired  solicitously,  "try 
another  ?" 

Now  Philip  was  not  nearly  as  afraid  of  the  gambler  as  of 
Old  Man  Veldmann.  For  all  his  pretended  disdain — which 
after  all  was  merely  a  sort  of  class-consciousness — he  stood 
a  little  in  awe  of  the  latter,  whose  wickedness  seemed 
uncanny.  The  old  rascal  belonged  to  every  age,  to  every 
clime.  He  might  have  shipped  as  coxswain  of  a  Berseker 
crew,  or  sailed  the  seas  in  the  Flying  Dutchman.  The  cold, 
efficient  MacAllister  represented  a  more  modern  and  com 
mercialized  deviltry,  something  the  amiable  youth  felt  he 
could  understand  and  aspire  to,  even  match.  So  he  was 
enjoying  himself  hugely  in  spite  of  his  bruises,  and  reso 
lutely  assumed  what  his  fraternity  brothers  had  once  decided 
was  the  best  "poker  face." 

"Garden,  Garrison,  McClintock,"  he  murmured,  "funny 
how  many  names  that  man  had,  and  my  father  has  an  ex 
cellent  memory."  He  extended  his  own  cigarette-case,  ask 
ing  with  an  ironic  cunning, — "Try  one  of  mine — I  hope  you 
like  the  flavour." 


THE  DICERS  43 

And  MacAllister  never  heeded  the  temptation  to  laugh, 
but  gave  him  his  heart's  desire. 

"You  play  a  good  hand,"  was  his  admiring  rejoinder — sub 
tlest  of  flattery  for  Master  Phil.  "Suppose  we  call  it  about 
fifty-fifty." 

"How  much  do  you  want  ?     Shoot !" 

"A  little  brusque,  soul  of  my  soul,  but  then  thou  wert  ever 
currish  with  thy  friends." 

"Oh,  cut  it,  Mac,  you're  not  back  in  the  Seminary." 

The  allusion  to  the  early  punishment  meted  out  to  him 
by  loving  parents,  who  had  actually  designed  him  for  the 
pulpit,  amused  the  gambler.  He  smiled  but  kept  to  the  main 
chance. 

"Well,  about  fifty  thousand,  but  five  will  do." 

Now  the  boy  began  to  envisage  the  stakes,  but  resolutely 
he  bluffed  on. 

"You're  a  sweet  little  artist  in  blackmail." 

"Not  blackmail,  the  labourer  is  worth  his  hire." 

"But  you  don't  dare  to  see  my  old  man,  anyway,  so  why 
should  I  'kick  in'  ?"  He  was  alarmed  now,  but,  proud  of  his 
proficiency  in  the  ways  and  vernacular  of  the  underworld, 
he  carefully  kept  his  dialogue  "in  character." 

"Your  father  knows  me,"  the  other  explained  as  though 
with  an  infinite  and  even  paternal  patience,  "but  I  don't  think 
he's  ever  met  Rosetta." 

"She  isn't  here !" 

"Not  exactly,  but  within  hail." 

"All  right,  but  talk  some  language  I  can  understand,  some 
figures  I  can  count  on  my  fingers." 


44  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Well,  a  thousand  will  do — now — there's  something  you 
can  do  for  me  later." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  boy,  and  in  truth  the  scale  of 
operations  was  a  little  low  for  the  splendid  MacAllister. 
"But  it  can't  be  done,"  he  went  on,  "I'm  strapped.  I  can't 
get  more  than  five  hundred." 

"You  could  fix  a  check." 

"That  isn't  being  done  this  season,  MacAllister,  at  least 
I've  never  done  it  yet.  But  I'll  get  the  five  hundred  some 
how." 

"On  account?" 

"All  right,  on  account,  I  won't  say  how  large,  but  tell  me 
why  all  this  'speshul  scenery?'  Signaling  with  pebbles  on 
window  an'  everything — like  some  ham  Belasco  staging  a 
ten-twenty-thirt'  in  Troy  ?" 

"Oh,  I  just  wanted  to  impress  you  a  bit." 

"Well,  you  didn't,  not-one-little-bit!" 

"Might  better  have  tried  it  on  the  other,  eh,  Phil?" 

"Who  d'you  mean?" 

"The  heart  of  oak,  back  there  on  the  beach,  with  the  girl." 

"How  did  you  know?  But,  thanks,  I  can  handle  him 
myself." 

"Can  you?"  The  intonation  held  the  slightest  of  innu 
endoes. 

"Why  not?"  Still  there  was  a  look  of  alarm  on  the 
features  that  would  have  made  such  a  wonderful  model 
for  an  "ad"  artist. 

The  opportunity  came  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  in  front 
of  Tom  Grogan's,  as  they  came  hard  on  the  heels  of  Ben 


THE  DICERS  45 

who  was  making  for  the  wharf,  careening  along  full  sail  on 
the  sea  of  the  night's  memories.  Such  voyages  always  come 
to  sudden  endings.  This  time  the  rock  that  stove  in  the 
frail  bark  was  a  bit  of  gashouse  slang  from  Phil — about 
Sally.  He  was  half -drunk  or  he  wouldn't  have  said  it. 

The  retort  from  Ben's  right  was  swifter  and  more  accu 
rate  than  Pushbutton  Pete's  and  Master  Phil  was  stretched 
out  on  the  cobbles  of  the  alley,  when  MacAllister,  with  an  al 
most  imperceptible  gesture,  signaled  to  Pete.  And  Pete 
always  caught  the  slightest  of  his  chief's  signals.  Ben 
turned  instinctively,  only  to  slip  in  the  lees  from  a  battened-in 
wine-cask  that  lay  near  the  gutter.  The  blow  was  a  little 
high  but  sufficient  to  catch  him  off-balance,  and  stones  made 
the  oblivion  utter  and  complete.  Philip  was  the  first  to 
revive. 

"Here,  this  is  your  mess,"  said  MacAllister,  "lend  us  a 
hand." 

"Not  there,"  called  the  boy,  "that's  his  ship.  Try  the  one 
laid  up  at  the  Bunker  Dock." 

They  carried  the  unconscious  sailor  along  the  water-front 
two  blocks,  and,  evading  the  watch  on  board,  threw  him  under 
a  life-boat  by  the  port  light,  covering  his  inert  form  with  a 
tarpaulin.  As  an  extra  precaution,  the  efficient  MacAl 
lister  shook  the  full  contents  of  a  bottle  on  a  handkerchief, 
and  left  it  as  a  pleasant  dream-potion  over  the  victim's  head. 

"Another  of  my  many  little  favours,"  said  he  to  the  youth 
as  they  slunk  away  from  the  wharf,  "and  another  most  ex 
cellent  reason  for  forgetting." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  now  frightened  Phil. 


46  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Why,  this  little  affair  of  yours  would  send  you  over  the 
road  for  a  pretty  long  stretch,  if  not  to  the  chair." 

"Not  murder !"  groaned  the  boy.  MacAllister  maintained 
an  eloquent  silence,  but  "Ay  tank  so,"  again  muttered  the 
Swede,  and  the  old  man : 

"May  God  have  mercy  on  yer  soul!" 

The  doubtful  benison  echoed  in  his  ears  as  he  stole  through 
the  shadows  up  to  the  great  house  on  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  VII 
"THE  BIG  BOYS" 

As  they  passed  South  Shore  Light,  at  sun-up,  the  skipper  of 
the  Provincetown  was  startled  to  see,  on  his  own  deck,  the 
first  mate  of  the  rival  North  Star.  However,  he  maintained 
enough  of  his  Yankee  aplomb  to  observe  the  ritual  following 
all  physical  contests  that  take  place  in  America,  by  inquir 
ing  most  solicitously  after  "the  other  fellow." 

He  was  duly  reassured.  To  the  best  of  Ben's  belief  and 
knowledge,  they  were  enjoying  excellent  health. 

The  skipper  took  note  of  the  plural,  also  of  the  bruised 
cheek  and  hair  clotted  with  blood. 

"So  they  was  they — huh!" 

Thus  conservatively  expressing  his  sympathy  and  admira 
tion,  he  called  to  the  man  at  the  wheel  to  "starb'r'd"  his 
helm,  meanwhile  doing  the  same  for  the  brown  ballast  in  his 
cheek. 

"If  it's  a  foul  wind  that  blowed  ye  aboard,"  he  further 
observed,  "it's  turned  out  fair.  Rogers,  y'know,  has  the 
scurvy,  and  when  I  found  he  wahn't  aboard,  I  gave  Harris 
his  berth,  an'  damme  if  Harris  didn't  just  go  an'  break  his 
leg.  So  the  berth's  yours,  seein'  ye've  shipped  with  us,"  he 
paused  to  port  his  ballast  again,  the  peculiar  sucking,  rotary 

47 


48  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

motion  expressing  an  infinite  sarcasm  as  he  added, — "how 
ever  unwillin'." 

So  for  this  voyage  at  least  Ben  was  signed  up  without 
examining  the  articles. 

It  was  a  fair  one  almost  all  the  way  down.  Even  Hatteras 
was  not  inclement  and  off  the  Carolinas,  though  the  wind 
edged  a  little  towards  the  north,  it  continued  so  favouring  that 
they  ran  before  it,  three  shining  towers  of  cupolaed  canvas 
under  the  bluest  of  skies.  Fortune  had  not  so  smiled  on  them 
for  many  moons.  But  on  the  ninth  day  out,  she  and  her 
breezes  shifted  most  capriciously.  Now  folk  who  work 
under  white,  wind-driven  canvas  are  quite  as  superstitious 
as  those  who  play  before  its  still,  painted  walls,  and  the  crew, 
from  the  second  officer  down  to  the  little  runt  of  a  cabin- 
boy,  declared  it  was  "all  on  account  o'  that  black  cat." 

It  was  a  hundred  miles  southeast  of  Forida,  and  in  the 
morning.  All  one  could  see  was  a  gentle  respiration  of 
waters  fulfilling  that  pathetic  fallacy  of  unnumbered  poets, 
seeming  indeed  asleep.  All  one  could  hear  was  a  gentle  swish 
as  the  ship's  prow  shore  their  pellucid  green.  Astern  a 
shark's  fin  winked  threateningly. 

Forward  and  in  the  waist,  the  hands  were  sluicing  the 
decks,  or  mending  the  ship's-gear.  In  the  standing  rigging, 
six  of  them  sang  as  they  dipped  their  brushes  into  little 
buckets  of  tar, — an  old  Down  East  chanty,  slow-measured 
and  mournful.  No  one  was  in  the  foc's'le  except  a  foreign 
seaman,  who  had  gone  below  a  few  hours  before,  complaining 
of  a  touch  of  fever. 

Suddenly  three  screams  split  the  still  air  in  rapid  succes- 


"THE  BIG  BOYS"  49 

sion.  The  bosun  and  the  ship's  carpenter  rushed  forward 
into  the  forecastle,  and  there,  stretched  on  his  bunk,  froth 
on  his  ashen  face,  his  limbs  distorted  and  rigid,  lay  the 
foreign  sailor. 

"Look  at  that !"  whispered  the  bosun.  His  voice  shook. 
So,  too,  did  the  forefinger  pointing  at  the  twisted  corpse. 

His  companion  stopped  short,  and  he,  too,  shivered 
through  all  of  his  sturdy  bulk,  as  his  own  eyes  met  two 
others  of  yellow,  gleaming  above  the  bunk.  On  the  breast 
of  the  dead  man,  humping  its  back  and  spitting  at  them,  sat 
— a  black  cat. 

Perhaps  the  death  could  have  been  diagnosed  by  a  ship's- 
surgeon,  had  there  been  one  aboard,  but  the  crew  would 
never  have  believed  him.  They  came  tumbling  on  deck, 
trembling  and  swearing  the  strange  rough  oaths  of  the  sea, 
each  under  his  breath  as  if  in  fear  of  disturbing  some  evil 
presence  that  haunted  the  ship. 

After  them  came  the  bosun,  and  in  his  hands,  carried 
at  arms'-length  like  a  thing  accursed,  the  black  cat.  Reach 
ing  the  rail,  he  spun  it  by  its  tail  three  times  around  his 
head,  then  hurled  it  into  the  waters  with  a  strength  that 
seemed  almost  preternaturally  aided.  The  ill-omened  ani 
mal  fell  far  astern,  close  by  the  winking  shark's  fin,  which 
vanished,  then  reappeared,  waiting  with  infinite  patience 
for  greater  prey. 

They  buried  the  strange  sailor  in  the  next  watch,  for 
there  must  be  haste  in  the  heat  of  the  tropics.  While  the 
crew  gathered  round,  one  or  two  in  old-fashioned  New  Eng 
land  devoutness,  but  most  of  them  turning  their  caps  in 


50  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

their  hands,  or  shifting  from  one  foot  to  another  in  child 
like  awe,  the  captain  read  a  brief  burial  service.  Then  the 
weighted  form  dropped  into  the  sea. 

In  the  late  afternoon,  the  second  officer  approached  the 
quarter-deck. 

"Jones  and  that  damned  squarehead  Swanson  have  smug 
gled  a  jug  o'  Jamaicy  in  the  foc's'le  'n  are  raisin'  seven  kinds 
o'  hell." 

Ordered  on  deck,  that  amiable  pair  became  drunkenly 
mutinous,  until  Ben  knocked  them  into  the  scuppers.  Buckets 
of  cold  sea  water  revived  them,  and  they  returned  to  their 
duties,  but  in  a  sullen  manner  that  boded  further  trouble. 

Meanwhile  the  barometer  was  falling  steadily.  Twilight 
and  the  dog-watch  came,  but  the  haze  on  the  horizon  was 
even  thicker  and  more  ominous  than  the  twilight.  The  wind 
shifted  again,  tuning  the  countless  harps  of  the  shrouds  to  an 
alarming  concert-pitch. 

"Port  y'r  'elm  two  points,"  called  Ben ;  "Port-'ellum-two- 
points-sir,"  the  man  at  the  wheel,  and  the  ship  came  up  into 
the  wind.  Another  short  command,  and  swiftly  as  circus 
hands  striking  a  tent,  little  dark  figures  scurried  up  the  tall 
spars  into  the  commingled  clouds  of  mist  and  canvas,  and, 
curled  perilously  on  yard-arms  describing  violent  arcs  on 
the  sky,  gathered  in  the  crackling  ghostly  cupolas. 

The  gallant  white  towers  had  fallen  now,  and  shorn  of  all 
but  a  little  reefed  square  of  topsail,  two  tiny  mutton-legs  of 
storm- jib  and  spanker,  the  Pr ovine ctotvn  bowled  along 
through  the  murk,  holding  well  to  her  course,  when  the 
real  gale  struck  her.  For  a  moment  she  trembled  through  all 


"THE  BIG  BOYS"  51 

her  timbers,  then  ran  like  a  racehorse  feeling  whip  and  spur 
for  the  first  time.  The  steersman  spun  his  wheel,  and  the 
bark  swung  into  head-seas,  then  pitched  and  tossed  sicken- 
ingly,  each  mountainous  wave  hitting  her  slender  ribs  like 
a  mighty  triphammer  fist  in  cruel  infighting. 

"A  -  uv  a  night,"  growled  a  hand  as  eight  bells 

clanged  again  through  the  darkness,  then  to  the  slickered 
figure  beside  him : 

"Say,  matey,  how'd  the  little  house  on  Preble  Square 
look  t'ye  now?" 

"Tain't  a  fair  question,  it's  crool — I'm  afeared — "  the 
words  were  lost  in  the  wind  and  flying  spate — "Never — 
again " 

"It's  the  black  cat  that  done  it,  dang  'er,"  and  simul 
taneously  they  reached  into  hip-pockets  for  the  old  consoler, 
when  a  moving  mountain  of  foam  swept  across  the  deck, 
tossing  them  against  the  knightheads,  and  carrying  the  brown 
treasures  away. 

"Dod  gast  that  black  cat!"  cried  the  less  blasphemous  one 
as  they  picked  themselves  up  from  the  scuppers,  "we  ain't 
had  no  luck  since  we  found  'er  a-clawin'  the  corp." 

In  a  slight  lull  following  midnight,  Ben  went  below  to 
the  cabin  where  the  cook  brought  as  much  of  a  can  of 
coffee  as  he  had  been  able  to  salvage  in  the  rocking  trip 
from  the  galley. 

The  mate  stood  a  moment,  dripping  rivulets  on  the  sway 
ing  floor,  the  mug  of  steaming  liquid  half  way  to  his  lips,  but 
drinking  in  surer  sustenance  from  a  little  picture  frame. 
She  had  smuggled  it  in  her  blue  dress  to  the  Light,  that  night 


52  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

before  he  sailed.  In  the  midst  of  the  storm  the  girlish  face 
was  strangely  calm. 

Draining  the  mug,  he  clambered  on  deck  again,  taking  the 
lee-side,  the  captain  still  sticking  to  the  weather.  To  the 
boy  he  seemed  suddenly  old  and  weak.  And  in  the  light 
from  the  binnacle  the  muscles  of  his  face  were  caught  up 
on  one  side  as  if  in  pain.  His  lurching,  too,  was  more  than 
the  ship's  roll  warranted  a  veteran  rider  of  the  seas. 

Stroke  coming?  Ben  asked  himself,  then  shouted  in  the 
other's  ear, — 

"You'd  ought  to  go  below,  sir." 

"What  d'ye  take  me  for?"  the  granite  soul  roared  back 
above  the  storm,  "a  lily-livered  landlubber  af eared  of  a  cap 
ful  o'  wind?" 

"I till  be  a  regular  jugful  before  we're  through,  sir,  and 
you're  not  well." 

"The  more  reason  I  shouldn't  leave  it  to  youngsters  with 
out  hair  on  'er  chests — but  sure  as  there's  a  God  above  those 
masts,  the  old  girl'll  ride  'er  out.  She's  His  fav'rite  daughter, 
boy." 

At  this  premature  boast  the  shrouds  whistled  eerily,  every 
plank  groaned  as  if  torn  asunder,  and  above  the  pandemoniac 
symphony  blared  the  voice  of  some  galloping  storm  king. 
Even  as  he  spoke  the  captain  staggered,  but  dauntlessly  gazed 
aloft  to  where  noble  spars  should  have  ranged,  tier  on  tier, 
with  three  little  pieces  of  canvas  holding  on  stoutly  against 
the  wind,  but  all  they  could  see  through  the  gloom  was  the 
ghostly  jib  and  the  innumerable  driving  lances  of  the  rain. 
Even  the  sailing  lights  gleamed  dimly,  rather  like  glazing 


"THE  BIG  BOYS"  53 

eyes  than  lanterns,  and  time  after  time — the  watcher  would 
tire  of  counting — the  ship's  nose  reared  to  the  sky,  then 
swung  down  into  the  maelstrom,  not  sliding  gently  but  plung 
ing  desperately,  as  a  wounded  and  frantic  steed  with  legions 
of  others  at  her  heels,  onrushing  to  beat  her  under. 

So  the  night  wore  on. 

At  dawn,  or  the  hour  that  should  have  seen  dawn,  Ben. 
scenting  trouble  again,  visited  the  engine-room. 

"How's  she  holding,  Sandy?"  he  asked  the  grizzled  Scot 
who  was  watching  the  little  auxiliary  engine  as  a  mother 
a  dying  child. 

"Ay,  she'll  pull  through,  sir,  wi'  care,  though  I  might  gae 
sae  far,"  he  qualified  with  characteristic  canniness,  "as  to 
wish  I  had  the  auld  engine  on  the  Cameronia,  noo.  These 
mickle  toys  are  no  o'  much  account." 

"You're  right.  It's  only  good  in  a  calm,  or  to  save  tug  hire 
in  a  harbour,  but  it's  the  only  liftin'  propeller  that  ever 
buzzed  out  of  Salthaven,  so  the  captain's  stuck  on  it  like  a 
kid  with  a  tin  machine." 

As  he  spoke,  the  unsteady  floor  on  which  they  stood  rose 
up  at  a  perilous  angle.  The  engineer  slipped,  his  hand  falling 
from  the  throttle.  Deep  within  the  hull  as  they  were,  they 
could  feel  the  screw  under  her  stern  rising  clear  of  water 
with  the  plunge,  only  to  spin  futilely  in  the  air.  The  little 
engine,  now  uncontrolled,  wheezed  and  thrashed  as  though  it 
would  be  racked  to  pieces.  Ben  flew  to  the  throttle,  while 
Scotty  steadied  himself,  then  resumed  the  careful  operation 
of  opening  and  shutting  it  with  the  interminable  fall  and  rise. 

"The  big  boys  are  out,  the  nicht,"  he  said  to  Ben   as  they 


54  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

climbed  another  long  watery  mountain,  then  jerked  out  a 
warning  "Look  out!" 

The  mate  turned  just  in  time  to  escape  the  heavy  wrench 
flung  by  the  leader  of  the  drunken  pair  whom  he  had  laid 
out  on  the  deck  in  the  afternoon  watch,  and  who,  bent  on 
vengeance,  were  clambering  down  the  ladder.  The  flying 
missile  hurtled  over  his  scalp  into  the  frail  engine.  The 
damage  was  done;  the  frail  mechanism  was  injured  beyond 
repair. 

The  topmost  sailor  escaped  up  the  ladder,  but  his  com 
panion,  crouching  low,  hurled  a  belaying  pin  at  the  mate. 
It,  too,  missed  the  mark  by  a  hair's-breadth,  smashing  the 
swinging  lamp  instead,  and  leaving  the  hold  in  utter  darkness 
just  as  a  heavy  sea  shattered  the  hatches,  deluging  them  and 
the  engine-room  with  a  foot  of  water.  In  the  murk  and 
cloud  of  escaping  steam,  they  grappled,  Ben  seizing  the 
sailor's  throat,  and  choking  the  spluttered  curses  until  they 
died  to  a  hissing  whisper.  There  was  a  splash  as  a  limp 
form  dropped  in  the  water  swishing  from  side  to  side — fol 
lowed  by  silence  within,  bedlam  without.  Above,  he  found 
the  crew  frantically  clearing  away  the  wreckage  of  the  fore- 
topmast.  As  swiftly  as  possible  he  made  his  way  over  the 
careening  deck. 

Suddenly  the  heaviest  sea  of  all  that  night  struck  them,  and 
the  skipper,  shouting  some  inaudible  command,  lurched, 
missed  his  footing,  falling  afoul  of  the  binnacle.  The  mate 
bent  over  to  help  him,  when  above  the  din  of  the  tempest, 
rose  the  warning  cry  of  the  lookout  forward. 

It  came  too  late.    Head-on,  the  Provincetcmm  crashed  into 


"THE  BIG  BOYS"  55 

the  dark  mass  floating  only  two  feet  above  the  water,  and 
just  a  shade  darker  than  the  surrounding  waves. 

"A  derelict !"  came  the  cry. 

"Dang  that  black  cat !    We  might  have  knowed  it." 

The  ship's  carpenter  reached  the  quarter  deck. 

"She's  filling  a  hundred  to  the  minute,"  he  panted  out, 
"she'll  founder  in  ten." 

"All  hands  to  the  boats !"  megaphoned  Ben  through  his 
trumpeted  hands,  but  there  was  little  need  for  the  command. 
The  panic-stricken  crew  were  sprawling  and  sliding  over  the 
slanting  decks  to  port  and  starboard. 

The  Chinese  cook  stumbled  out  from  the  galley,  the  oblique 
slits  of  his  eyes  turning  almost  to  full  oval  as  they  rolled  in 
an  ecstasy  of  fear.  He  was  jabbering  a  strange  heathenish 
prayer  and  for  defense  against  the  raging  elements,  he  car 
ried  a  meat-cleaver,  weapon  futile  enough.  A  heavy  sea, 
breaking  over  the  port  side,  silenced  his  uncouth  orisons  and 
hurled  him,  weapon  and  all,  at  the  mast,  then  over  the  taffrail, 
as  it  might  a  tiny  cork — and  on  out  into  the  darkness. 

A  little  mongrel  dog,  yellow  as  his  vanished  master,  for 
whom  he  had  conceived  a  strange  and  currish  affection,  had 
followed  the  cook  up  the  ladder,  and  stood  shivering  and 
whimpering  on  the  companionway.  But  there  was  no  pity 
even  for  his  helplessness.  Like  a  little  trick  dog,  striving  for 
balance  on  the  top  of  some  elephant  suddenly  gone  mad  in 
a  stampeded  circus,  he  seemed,  his  forefeet  churning  the 
crest  of  the  long  greyback  that  carried  him  over. 

Nine  hands  reached  the  lifeboats,  four  on  the  port,  five  on 
the  starboard  side.  The  one  who  in  the  earlier  watches  had 


56  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

longed  for  the  little  house  on  Preble  Square  was  praying, 
but  others  were  cursing,  not  in  the  flippant  ejaculations  of 
ordinary  intercourse,  nor  the  reckless  taunts  flung  in  a  fight, 
but  the  frenzied  blasphemies  of  craven  souls  that  face  and 
tremble  before  annihilation. 

The  port  boat  swung  clear  but  in  the  fury  of  the  wind 
and  their  mad  haste  the  "forward  fall"  quickly  jammed;  the 
stern  tilted  downward,  and  spilled  them  into  the  sea. 

One  by  one  they  were  washed  astern.  A  clutching  hand — 
a  distorted  face — a  last  imprecation — and  they  were  gone. 

The  five  in  the  starboard  boat  were  ready  when  Ben,  seeing 
their  defection,  ripped  out  the  angry  command : 

"Belay  there  till  I  give  orders !" 

The  renegade  five  would  have  put  off,  but  the  man  who  had 
just  stood  his  trick  at  the  wheel,  the  devout  soul  from 
Preble  Square,  and  Scotty,  his  Gaelic  dourness  for  once  a 
beautiful  thing,  stood  by,  stopping  the  unreeling  tackle  and 
the  boat  midway  in  its  descent  to  the  waves.  The  mate  bore 
the  unconscious  figure  of  his  chief  to  the  rail  and  propped 
him  up  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"In  with  you!"  he  called,  shoving  the  steersman  towards 
safety,  but  the  engineer  shook  his  grizzled  old  head. 

"I'll  stay  wi'  ye,  laddie." 

"In,  you  fool !"  and  Ben,  shaking  the  affectionate  hand 
from  his  shoulder,  drew  his  revolver.  Under  its  chill  per 
suasion,  the  old  man,  stunned  and  wondering,  clambered  in 
just  as  the  boat  slid  to  the  waves. 

Then  the  boy's  face  changed.  Peril  ever  wears  a  shroud 
ing  cloak,  but  its  countenance  envisaged  by  souls  of  steel  is 


"THE  BIG  BOYS"  57 

an  immortal  flame,  and  in  its  light  the  boyish  features  seemed 
almost  transfigured.  Holding  to  the  standing  rigging,  he 
waved  to  the  old  engineer. 

"Good  old  Scotty,  good-bye  and  good  luck !" 

Reaching  under  his  oilskins,  he  drew  forth  a  packet, 
clenched  it  in  his  fist  as  though  weighing  precious  gold  and 
tossed  it  to  him. 

"Get  it  to  Sally  Fell,"  was  his  last  order  as  a  long  swell 
took  the  boat  on  its  acre-wide  shoulder  and  bore  it  away  from 
the  ship. 

And  then  as,  true  to  the  old  traditions  of  the  sea,  he 
waited  for  the  final  plunge,  somehow  in  sublime  irony,  now 
that  its  work  was  done,  the  storm  lulled. 

As  the  skies  began  to  lighten,  a  half  mile  away  he  could 
still  see  the  last  boat.  But  whether  because  the  cowardly 
majority  of  its  crew  over-ruled  old  Scotty  and  the  loyal 
hands,  or  because  the  seas  still  ran  too  high  to  effect  a  res 
cue,  it  disappeared,  and  he  was  left  alone  on  the  deep. 

The  wind  died  down,  the  clouds  rifted  in  the  north,  but 
the  long  rollers  still  broke  against  the  sides  of  the  doomed 
vessel. 

For  a  moment  he  leaned  against  the  shrouds  in  despair. 
The  bright  vision  had  gone,  hidden  in  its  enshrouding  cloak, 
but  another  came  to  him  out  of  the  dying  storm, — a  red  tam 
o'  shanter,  lustrous  black  curls,  and  eyes  with  gleams  like 
phosphor  flashes  on  the  midnight  sea. 

He  looked  up,  murmuring  a  sailor's  prayer.  As  if  in 
answer,  a  solitary  star  shone  in  the  rifts  of  the  clouds.  Its 
rays  were  a  symbol  of  hope  and  he  said  to  himself : 


58  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"What  a  fool  I  was  to  think  of  dying !  I  would  have  quit 
cold." 

Carefully  guiding  himself  along  by  bulwark  and  rail, 
across  the  slanting  deck  he  made  his  way.  The  ship's  prow 
was  deeper  under  the  foam.  Only  a  moment,  perhaps  two  or 
three,  was  the  margin  between  life  with  Sally — and  death. 
There  was  no  time  to  construct  a  raft,  and  the  life-boats  were 
gone.  With  deft  quick  fingers  he  lashed  himself  to  a  spar, 
and  was  clear  of  the  wreck  but  a  few  powerful  strokes  when 
the  stern  rose  into  the  air  and  her  nose  plunged  for  the  last 
time.  The  suction  almost  dragged  him  down  after  the  ex 
piring  ship,  but  after  a  fathom's  submergence  he  floated  free. 

And  strangely,  as  he  rose  and  fell  on  the  buoyant  waves, 
and  star  after  star  came  out,  he  felt,  not  dismay,  but  peace 
and  hope.  And  memories,  not  the  scarlet  rosary  whose  tell 
ing,  they  say,  no  drowning  man  can  escape,  but  glimpses  of 
a  girl,  in  all  her  varying  moods  and  adorable  ways,  came 
and  sustained  him. 

Then  broke  the  dawn,  at  first  just  the  promise  of  light, 
then  a  mirage  of  rose,  the  golden  flood  tide,  and  at  last 
the  jocund  sun  himself,  like  a  perfect  yellow  coin  lost  from 
the  purse  of  some  old  freebooter  who  once  roved  these 
waters,  stood  balanced  on  the  far  rim  of  the  sea. 

The  hours  passed.  Once,  a  faint  feather  of  smoke,  two 
tiny  needles  of  masts,  and  a  thin  line  of  hull,  betrayed  a  far 
away  steamer.  But  it,  too,  passed,  like  a  sick  man's  fancy. 
And  the  lonely  sailor  felt  sick  all  over,  and  parched  and 
faint  in  the  sun.  Now  and  then  he  swam  a  little  but  his 
strength  was  weakening. 


''THE  BIG  BOYS"  59 

Night  fell  again  and  its  coolness  freshened  him.  His 
fancy  likened  the  light  touch  of  the  wind  to  Sally's  own 
upon  his  brow.  And  once  again  the  stars  smiled  on  the  man 
lashed  to  the  bit  of  boating  spar,  speaking  of  hope.  But 
Hope  is  a  frail  thing,  delicate  as  any  bird,  and  Despair  has 
long  clutching  arms  that  forever  drag  one  under. 

Another  dawn.  More  hours  of  pitiless  sun.  Now  in  his 
disordered  imaginings  he  heard  the  sound  of  bells — bells — 
bells  everywhere.  At  first  he  thought  they  were  bell-buoys, 
all  around  him,  rung  by  phantom  hands  to  mock  him.  Now 
it  was  the  bell  in  the  old  church  at  home,  its  brazen  tones 
multiplied  a  thousand  times,  tolling  his  own  knell. 

"Ding-dong,  ding-dong" — why  couldn't  he  drive  their 
ringing  from  his  head. 

Again  they  became  ships'  bells  telling  the  time. 

"How  long  have  I  been  drifting,  drifting!  They  must 
have  tolled  a  thousand,  thousand  hours — enough  time  for  all 
eternity." 

"Ding-dong,  ding-dong,"  to  the  rising  and  falling  of  the 
waves.  Why  couldn't  he  get  them  out  of  his  head ! 

Perhaps  back  in  her  home  in  Salthaven,  Sally,  with  the 
premonition  God  gives,  they  say,  to  faithful  lovers,  was 
praying  hard  for  him,  for  a  favouring  wind  sprang  up,  re 
freshing  the  shipwrecked  sailor,  silencing  the  incessant  tones 
of  those  dreadful  bells,  and  wafting  him  towards  an  unknown 
shore. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes — he  feared  a  mirage.  No,  it  persisted, 
that  dark  line,  a  little  heavier  and  deeper  than  the  sea-rim, 
like  a  deep-blue  stroke  of  crayon  on  a  thin  line  of  lighter 


60  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

blue.  Its  form  grew  more  distinct.  A  tiny  cone  rose  from 
its  center.  It  grew  into  a  mountain  top.  Rounded  masses 
around  it  gave  evidence  of  trees ;  a  white  strip  betrayed  sand  ; 
and  gradually  he  was  borne  between  the  encircling  arms  of 
two  coral  reefs  into  a  peaceful,  happy  bay. 

Gently  the  rollers  carried  him  to  the  white  shore.  Wearily 
he  unlashed  himself,  then,  too  spent  to  move,  lay  on  the 
sand  in  the  sun.  But  so  deep  and  full  are  the  hidden  reser 
voirs  of  human  vitality  and  so  strengthening  was  the  thought 
of  his  escape  that  he  finally  managed  to  stagger  to  his  feet. 
Crossing  the  sand  and  searching  through  the  tropical  vegeta 
tion,  he  discovered,  but  a  few  rods  away,  a  little  spring; 
drank  of  its  cooling  water,  and  then  fell  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE    DIVINE    CARLOTTA 

OF  precisely  the  same  height  were  Sally  Fell  and  Rosey 
Cohen,  but  as  different  in  habitat  and  appearance  as  a  fallow 
deer  and  a  gayly-striped  zebra.  Rosey  was  a  daughter  of 
the  slums,  a  foster  child  of  the  cafes.  Her  first  cry — even 
in  that  hour  it  was  harsh  and  forceful — was  heard  in  a  close 
room  behind  a  fire-escape  draped  with  a  vari-coloured  bed- 
cling,  one  of  a  thousand  such  crude  balconies  ranging  above 
the  crowded  East  Side  street  and  its  jostling  many-tongued 
thousands. 

Her  father  usually  stood  with  his  skull-cap  and  wide  flar 
ing  beard  in  the  doorway  of  the  Kosher  shop,  decorated  with 
ugly  dark  red  lumps  of  beef  and  scrawny  fowl,  hanging 
pathetically  with  their  heads  downward.  In  front  of  the 
store,  and  in  and  out  of  the  interminable  pushcarts,  with 
their  flaring  oil-lamps  at  night  illuminating  a  bewildering 
miscellany  of  merchandise, — everything  from  spoiled  grape 
fruit  to  slimsy  suspenders,  Rosey  played  and  fought  and 
bit  her  way.  In  her  life  there  were  two  bright  recurring 
episodes, — the  visits  to  the  gallery  of  the  Grand  Street 
Theater  where  the  adipose  Adler,  pride  of  the  Jewish  race, 
stalked  the  boards,  and  the  wandering  hurdy-gurdy,  to  which 

61 


62  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

she  danced,  not  with  the  dainty  grace  of  the  Greek  and  Italian 
children,  but  with  a  wild  abandon  and  agility  which  dis 
tracted  even  the  pushcart  vendors  from  their  wares. 

As,  in  not  any  too  ripe  a  fulness  of  time,  eight  little  ani 
mated  steps — a  curly-haired  brother  and  seven  little  sisters — 
followed  the  fat,  girdleless  "Momma,"  Rosey,  to  keep  this 
human  stairway  from  collapse,  joined  the  chorus  of  "The 
Queens  of  the  East,"  American  Wheel  Burlesque,  even  dis 
porting  for  one  week  at  Miner's  (where  they  "liked  'em 
fat,"  she  confessed)  but  whose  glory  is  now  a  pathetic 
legend. 

Here  an  equipment  of  animal  spirits,  hard  and  sensuous 
good  looks — really  libeling  her,  for  her  head  was  level 
enough — together  with  that  most  surprising  muscular  agility, 
even  promoted  her  to  a  place  in  the  "olio,"  the  intermission 
between  the  two  tawdry  acts  of  the  performance.  But  after 
a  year  or  two,  tiring  of  the  road,  she  blossomed  out  at  a 
semi- foreign  cafe,  on  a  street  that  cuts  Second  Avenue,  the 
boulevard  of  the  Ghetto,  midway  to  the  East. 

The  storm  that  was  hurling  the  Provincctown  to  her  doom 
enveloped  the  whole  coast,  and  drove  its  slanting  lances  on 
the  dripping  cabs  herded  in  the  triangle  outside  the  cafe. 
But  all  was  warmth  where  she  sat  at  a  table  near  the  piano, 
waiting  her  turn,  meanwhile  usurping  the  others'.  The 
rouge  on  her  cheeks  was  heightened  by  the  natural  scarlet 
of  good  spirits,  and  her  bobbed  black  mane  swished  from 
side  to  side  over  fleshy  but  shapely  shoulders,  as  she 
quarreled  with  the  manager.  In  this  fashion  of  headdress 
she  was,  of  course,  a  prophetess,  anticipating  the  present 


THE  DIVINE  CARLOTTA  63 

by  at  least  a  decade,  but  she  had  adopted  the  wild  coiffure 
from  a  Salome  make-up  she  had  admired.  It  was,  as  the 
cashier  was  explaining  to  a  startled  customer,  an  "Elluva- 
fight"  she  was  having  with  "the  boss."  She  apparently  liked 
anything  of  an  "elluva"  variety,  in  fact,  she  never  was  so 
happy  as  when  rowing.  Besides  she  thought  it  effective. 
So  finishing  the  manager,  she  ordered  the  jabbering  busboys, 
waiters,  and  orchestra  leader  about  with  a  sovereign  and 
well-dissembled  anger,  and  succeeded  most  thoroughly  in 
drowning  out  the  tenor  of  expansive  chest.  And  all  through 
this  performance — by  no  means  on  the  bill — the  black  eyes 
gauged  its  publicity  value,  for  nothing  pays  so  well  as 
rudeness  and  a  nicely-calculated  degree  of  insanity.  At 
least  the  faces  of  commuters  in  yokel  quest  of  Bohemia  so 
attested. 

MacAllister  made  his  way  through  the  blue  wisps  of 
smoke,  and  between  the  little  tables,  with  their  spaghetti 
dishes  and  inverted  siphons  of  carmine  wine. 

"Your  exit-cue,  Josef,  here's  a  gentleman  to  see  me." 

Nettled  by  the  emphasis  she  placed  on  the  seventh  word, 
and  its  implication,  the  manager  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  almost 
as  beside  himself  as  an  impresario  over  some  famous  star's 
caprice. 

MacAllister  dropped  lazily  into  a  chair  at  her  table,  giving 
as  always  the  impression  of  the  utmost  economy  of  word 
and  effort.  When  action  was  not  insistent,  his  tall  figure 
seemed  to  drawl  through  life — but  never,  even  when  mo 
tionless,  those  deft,  alabaster-finished  fingers  of  his.  In  the 
dark  picture  he  made  these  were  ever  the  highlights. 


64  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Gotta  bit  of  news  for  yuh,"  began  the  girl,  "that  Abey 
Clout  is  one  swell  little  press-agent." 

"Yeh,  he's  a  bright  boy,"  vouchsafed  MacAllister. 

"Bright !  Why,  he's  got  the  Singer  Tower  faded !  He's 
booked  me  for  a  solo  dance  at  Standish's  on  Broadway  at  a 
hundred  and  fifty  per,  lessn  his  commishun.  Not  that  I 
didn't  have  it  comin',"  she  added  proudly. 

Not  being  exactly  of  a  lymphatic  nature,  or  one  to  sit  back 
and  lazily  luxuriate  in  a  prospect,  she  sat  forward  blithely 
and  both  thrilled  and  shrilled  at  it.  Besides  the  figures 
just  mentioned  there  were  perquisites.  She  had  a  code, 
which  was  more  than  some  of  her  Madonna- faced  rivals 
could  boast,  priding  herself  on  always  having  "gone  straight," 
but  such  a  course  has  fine  gradations,  and  reasonably  un 
tainted  luxuries  were  to  be  had  from  all  gauged  as  "easy 
marks,"  without  too  entangling  a  compromise. 

"Congratulations  are  in  order,  Rosey." 

"Aw,  don't  Rosey  me  any  more.  He's  goin'  ta  bill  me  as 
'Carlotta,'  The  Divine  Carlotta!'  Canya  beat  it?" 

Mr.  MacAllister  couldn't,  and  she  continued. 

"I'm  the  illigit'mate  descendant  of  Mahomet,  Abey  says, 
some  wop  prophet,  I  guess — never  heard  him  menshuned 
in  the  synagogue.  But,  dearie,  'the  divine  Carlotta!'  Say, 
are  you  lissnen?" 

"My  homage,  divine  one." 

Carlotta,  for  henceforth  we  must  not  incur  her  dis 
pleasure  through  addressing  her  by  her  earlier  name, 
surveyed  his  cool,  suavely-tailored  length  with  some  admira 
tion. 


THE  DIVINE  CARLOTTA  65 

"Say,  Mac,  yuh  oughtta  get  some  sportier  suit  than  that 
cremation  cloth  you  're  always  wearin'." 

"In  what,  my  queen,  does  it  offend  you?" 

"They're  black,  but  they  gimme  the  blues."  She  looked 
around  proudly  as  she  emitted  this  sparkle.  "You  look  like 
a  continuous  wake." 

"I  wear  them  from  sentiment." 

"Sentiment — the  Hell  you  say!  'Sleft  outta  your  sys 
tem." 

"There  you're  in  error,  my  dear,  there's  a  vein,  deep  in 
my  nature,  which  your  more  obtuse  one  hasn't  touched, — a 
vein,  tender  and  pure  and  unalloyed.  You  see,"  he  grew 
rarely  communicative,  "it's  for  my  parents.  The  dear  old 
people  booked  me  for  the  Amen  corner,  and  later  the  big- 
time  pulpit " 

"Yuh  look  the  part!" 

"And  occasionally  it  can  be  useful.  I  can  splice  a  man 
and  an  untoward  girl  without  even  a  license — for  a  night — 
and  a  consideration." 

"Oh,  mister,  ain't  yuh  got  no  respect  for  my  innocence !" 
She  surveyed  him  critically,  "yes,  yuh  look  it,  with  them 
bits  of  cracked  ice.  Yuh  oughtn't  ta  wear  'em — they  give 
you  away." 

"My  lucky  stones,  ever  since  a  happy  night  up  in  Nome." 

He  shed  exquisite  reminiscence.  Much  red  blood  had  been 
spilled  that  night,  much  yellow  gold  exchanged. 

"They  were  Cal  Fresno's.  And  he  cashed  in  when  he 
forgot  to  wear  them  one  evening.  Same  thing  happened  to 
Forty-nine  Halliday  when  he  grew  careless,  just  as  Lucky 


66  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Lucille  foretold.  On  my  hands  they  bring  luck,  but  off, 
good-night !" 

"Sounds  like  an  intrestin'  movie  in  a  nickelette,"  said  Car- 
lotta,  then  issued  a  raucous  order. 

"Gustaf,  a  bottle  o'  Bud  for  the  gentleman,  or  will  you 
have  a  highball,  Mac?" 

"Neither,  thanks." 

"Oh,  I  forgot,  yuh  always  was  a  high-principled  man, 
Mac." 

But  it  was  her  turn,  and  she  flounced  from  the  table 
out  into  the  little  clear  space,  in  an  ensemble  of  raucous  voice, 
twitching  head,  hips,  and  shoulders,  all  at  a  ludicrous  but 
most  engaging  tempo — her  pace  was  always  accellerando. 

She  joined  him  again,  to  find  a  fourteen-year  old  young 
ster  with  ferret  eyes  and  a  Semitic  nose  whose  hawk-curve 
was  a  grotesque  caricature  of  his  sister's  well-shaped  one. 
After  a  whispered  colloquy,  a  modulation  which  she  achieved 
with  difficulty,  Carlotta  groped  in  her  well-developed 
bosom,  and  the  requested  greenback  rustled  in  the  boy's 
hand. 

"Now,  run  along,  Izzy,  and  don't  shoot  any  craps  on  the 
way  home — see.  And  give  love  to  the  Momma. 

"But  where  yuh  been,  Mac  ?" 

"Week-ending  with  a  friend  of  yours." 

"Bar  Harbour  or  Newport?"  she  jeered. 

"Neither — Salthaven,  Mass." 

She  concealed  a  sudden  look  of  apprehension,  leaning 
towards  the  gambler  with  an  assumed  tenderness  that  had 
absolutely  no  effect. 


THE  DIVINE  CARLOTTA  67 

"What  were  yuh  pullin'  on  the  kid  ?" 

"Just  foraging." 

Anger  smouldered  in  her  eyes,  only  to  be  diplomatically 
quenched. 

"Did  he  fall?" 

"Did  your  long-haired  ancestor  fall  for  Delilah  ?" 

Now,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  Carlotta  had  been  very  care 
ful  with  Master  Phil  and  his  pocket-book,  choosing  most  in 
expensive  places  for  dining  whenever  he  flitted  down  from 
New  Haven.  It  really  would  have  cut  her  tough  little  heart 
pretty  deep,  had  he  classed  her  as  a  "grafter"  or  "gold- 
digger,"  indifferent  as  she  might  be  to  the  odium  of  these 
appellatives  where  fair  game  was  concerned.  When  one  had 
a  "sweetheart" — why  there  was  all  the  difference  in  the 
world. 

"You  oughtta  lay  off  him,  Mac."  She  sprang  with  some 
maternal  quickening  to  the  defense.  "I've  stood  by  you  at 
cards  an'  a  lot  of  your  phony  schemes,  but  blackmailin'  a 
girl's  friends  is  diffrent." 

"Friends !"  he  retorted,  "a  girl  hasn't  any,  they're  always 
something  else,  more  or  less.  So,  easy  on  the  love-stuff, 
Little  One,  or  it  might  wreck  the  fair  structure  of  our  part 
nership." 

The  voice  was  raised  not  a  half-note,  but  it  held  a  master's 
reproof  for  Carlotta.  Those  cold,  unflickering  eyes  could 
read  the  faintest  lines  on  the  plaid  backs  of  cards  across  a 
wide  table,  and  even  her  easy  impudence  faltered  before 
them.  She  was  subdued,  or  through  discretion  appeared  so. 
She  was  also  a  little  uneasy  over  something  else. 


68  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Say,  Mac,"  she  assuaged  him,  "you  was  tellin'  about 
Lucky  Lucille — did  she  read  palms  an'  tell  your  future  and 
all  that?" 

"That's  what  her  sign  said." 

"And  did  you  believe  her,  did  it  come  out  the  way  she 
said?" 

"A  lot  of  it— why?" 

"Oh,  I  went  to  a  medyum,  over  on  Pell  Street,  a 
spooky  joint,  three  flights  up,  dark  an'  back  of  a  chop- 
sooey  hangout.  She  was  half-coon  and  half  chink  her 
self." 

"A  happy  medium,"  MacAllister  gibed. 

"Gawd  no!  There  was  nothin'  happy  about  her.  She 
was  the  saddest  lookin'  dame  I  ever  saw.  An',  well,  she 
says, — 'Dearie,  you're  goin'  on  a  real  long  journey '  " 

"You  prefer  roses?"  murmured  her  tormentor. 

Carlotta  started,  looking  furtively  over  her  shoulder. 
"Oh,  Gawd,  she  couldn't  ameant  that — but  a  long  journey, 
over  some  water " 

"Perchance,  to  'the  Island.' "  (He  referred  to  the  city 
prison.) 

"Stop  your  kiddin',  Mac,  this  was  serious — she  made  a  big 
impreshun  on  me.  It  was  all  dark,  with  two  spooky-lookin' 
guys  with  turbans,  an'  a  crystal,  an'  incense  burnin'.  But 
she  meant  the  ocean — in  a  ship,  an'  she  said " 

Here  Carlotta  closed  her  eyes  dramatically,  and  in  a  som 
nambulist's  voice  intoned, — 

"  'I  see  gold,  dearie,  showers  of  gold,  an'  you  in  the  midst 
of  it '  " 


THE  DIVINE  CARLOTTA  69 

"Well,  Carlotta,  if  you're  good,  maybe  you'll  have  your 
wish,"  said  the  gambler  enigmatically. 

"The  gold  lissens  well — "  she  nodded,  "but  that  long  jour 
ney—I  don't  like  it." 

And  she  shivered  as  she  reached  for  her  cloak. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE" 

SALLY  wasn't  at  all  anxious  to  see  Philip,  though  he  came 
charioted  in  the  smartest  of  roadsters  and  splendidly  ap 
pointed  himself.  Little  Miss  Phoebe,  the  postmistress,  had 
just  stopped  her  wrenlike  chirping  long  enough  to  shake 
her  head  for  the  ninetieth  time,  with  an  eloquent  pity  that 
reminded  one  of  lavender  and  the  infinite  pathos  of  transient 
things,  and  the  girl  nodded  to  Philip  as  to  a  passer-by  whom 
one  remembers  having  seen  somewhere,  and  stood  on  the 
top  post-office  step,  gazing  downhill  over  the  roofs  and  the 
little  grove  of  masts  to  the  sea  beyond,  out  of  whose  silence 
no  message,  no  sign  had  come. 

"Oh,  hasn't  he  a  distinguished  air!"  whispered  Stella 
Appleby,  a  plump,  fair-sized  matrimonial  filly,  with  pretty- 
ish  blond  hair  and  blue  eyes,  Sally's  chum,  not  from  any 
particular  affinity,  but  purely  from  geographical  reasons. 
She  had  the  air  of  always  scanning  the  horizon  for  trousered 
craft,  also  a  predisposition  to  giggles,  all  harmless  enough, 
signifying  nothing  more  than  that  she  was  preparing  for  her 
trade  in  life,  quite  as  the  boy  destined  to  become  an  electri 
cal  engineer  fools  with  toy  batteries  and  bells.  If  you  lis 
tened  prophetically  you  could  hear  those  giggles  translated 

70 


"FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE"  71 

into  a  not  uncharming  baby-talk  over  an  infant  of  her 
own. 

"Oh,  isn't  he  distinguished !"  she  repeated,  admiring  fur 
ther  the  sartorial  graces, — the  Byronic  collar,  extending  a 
half-inch  over  the  lapel,  the  unpadded,  London-cut  shoulders. 
"Oh,  why  don't  you  say  something?  You  never  get  enthu 
siastic  over  anything  any  more,  and  I  must  say  I  like 
enthusiasm." 

The  object  of  the  adulation  had  finished  puttering  with 
his  car,  an  operation  ostentatiously  prolonged  over  the  new 
model,  and  was  overtaking  them. 

"Isn't  that  just  perfect?"  persisted  Stella,  pinching  the 
other's  arm,  and  trying  to  delay  her.  Now  the  other  youths 
of  Salthaven  obediently  raised  their  hats  two  inches  above 
their  heads  when  addressing  "a  lady,"  but  young  Mr.  Hunt- 
ington  always  doffed  his,  and,  furthermore,  stood  uncovered 
during  the  whole  course  of  the  conversation,  no  matter  what 
the  weather,  providing  only  the  lady  were  not  ill-favoured. 

"He's  just  like  the  men  in  Robert  Chambers's  stories,  isn't 
he  ?"  Stella  prattled  on,  with  time  enough  to  get  in  one  more 
blurb,  "Look  at  his  hair — that's  the  sort  of  hair-cut  to  have, 
not  the  countrified  round-cut  the  other  boys  get." 

Now  a  moment  before  Sally  had  looked  most  poetic,  with 
none  of  the  old  sweetness  gone,  but  the  old  care-free  boyish 
look  a  little  wistful,  and  now  and  then  tinged  with  the  heart's- 
tides.  In  the  caverns  of  the  deep,  the  pearl  as  it  ripens 
always  adds  to  its  white  innocence  the  auroral  flushes  of  ma 
turity.  However,  she  answered  Stella's  chatter  most  un- 
poetically  and  rudely, — 


72  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Shut  up!" 

That  tonsure  was  the  kind  Ben  innocently  used  to  acquire, 
to  her  horror.  Once  she  and  Stella  had  quarrelled,  not  speak 
ing  for  three  whole  days,  because  of  a  similar  remark  about 
Ben's  foot-wear  whose  squarish  cut,  Stella  declared,  lacked 
the  Huntingdon  "class."  But  Sally  had  no  time  for  further 
defence  of  her  sweetheart. 

"Oh — how  do  you  do,  Phil,"  she  said,  then  made  as  if  to 
hurry  on,  but  he  cut  across  the  walk  in  front  of  her. 

"Why  what's  the  matter,  Miss  Abstraction?  Thanks  for 
the  cordial  welcome  to  our  city !"  he  bantered  with  a  sarcas 
tic  "Br-r-rr"  and  shiver. 

"Oh,  I  have  so  many  things  to  do  at  home,  I  must  hurry 
back." 

"Don't  take  life  so  seriously,  Sally." 

"That's  just  it,  Mr.  Huntington,  I  tell  her  she's  too  serious. 
She's  changed  a  lot,"  put  in  Stella,  eager  to  be  in  the  conver 
sation. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be,"  apologized  Sally,  "But  really  I've 
been  awfully  busy  and  I  must  hurry  back." 

"Oh,  have  a  heart,  Sally,"  persisted  Philip.  "Let  me  drive 
you  out  to  the  cove.  I've  just  had  new  shock-absorbers  put 
on  my  car,  they're  just  invented — pretty  nifty,  too,  and  she 
rides  beautifully." 

"Oh,  do,  Sally,  it  would  be  fine— let's !"  Stella  put  in  her 
oar,  determined  to  at  least  occupy  the  rear-seat,  whether 
asked  or  not. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Phil,  but  really  I  can't — but  Stella 
would  love  to  go." 


"FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE"  73 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  decide  whether  this  remark 
was  vindictive  or  merely  strategic,  but  it  didn't  matter,  for, 
outmanoeuvring  him,  she  had  hurried  on,  and  Stella  was 
enjoying  the  thrill  of  being  helped  in  the  car,  with  the  addi 
tional  and  unexpected  advantage  of  occupying  that  front 
seat. 

Her  foolish  little  heart  thumped  with  the  engine  and 
thrilled  at  their  speed.  It  also  tingled  with  a  delightful  un 
certainty  as  to  whether  in  that  stretch  of  deserted  shore- 
road,  in  the  dark  o'  the  pines — he  wouldn't — Phil  did,  and 
there  was  only  a  feeble,  countering  "Oh,  Mr.  Huntington," 
and  a  blush  from  Stella,  weak  indeed  compared  to  the  re 
sounding  slap  Sally  would  have  given  him  in  her  present 
mood,  to  say  nothing  of  banishment  thereafter  from  her 
company.  But  Philip  didn't  seem  to  enjoy  the  innocent  epi 
sode.  In  spite  of  his  immaculate  toilet  the  features  looked 
careworn  and  haggard,  and  frequently  he  endangered  their 
course  by  furtively  looking  over  his  shoulder,  to  the  bewilder 
ment  of  Stella,  who  could  make  out  no  pursuer,  and  to  her 
consequent  chagrin.  But  little  caring  what  had  happened 
in  the  shade  of  the  pines,  or  anywhere,  for  that  matter,  ex 
cept  somewhere  on  that  wide,  unspeaking  ocean,  Sally  went 
home  to  face  Captain  Bluster — and  Aunt  Abigail. 

Aunt  Abigail  had  come  to  visit,  then,  worse  luck,  to  stay, 
and  worst  of  all,  to  ally  herself  with  her  obstinate  brother  in 
his  championship  of  Master  Philip. 

Very  spare  of  frame  and  also  of  kind  thoughts  was  Aunt 
Abigail.  Her  eyes  and  the  point  of  her  spectacled  nose  were 
as  sharp  as  her  scent  for  neighbourhood  gossip  and  possible 


74  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

misdemeanours  of  Sally.  The  sparse  hair  was  so  tightly 
drawn  into  its  knob  that  it  seemed  as  if  coiffured  by  some 
instrument  of  the  Spanish  inquisitors  whom  she  resembled, 
or  rather  the  iron  union  of  one  of  those  mediaeval  fanatics 
and  some  Puritan  dame  with  a  tight-corseted  soul.  She 
was  forever  making  life  a  perpetual  inquisition  for  herself 
and  others,  forever  straightlacing  their  souls. 

This  championship  of  Philip  by  Cap'n  Bluster  was  a  little 
puzzling,  for  deep  under  the  last  layer  of  his  crusty  old 
heart  was  a  selfish  affection  for  the  girl,  and,  though  he  rarely 
faced  the  fact,  he  at  least  subconsciously  realized  how  barren 
the  house  would  be  of  all  life  and  colour  and  joy  if  she  passed 
over  its  portal.  Perhaps  the  foolish  old  Boltwood  grudge 
had  something  to  do  with  it,  more  likely  the  fact  that  her 
coldness  to  the  Huntington  heir  made  the  catastrophe  re 
mote — but  then,  of  course,  Captain  had  a  lee  eye  on 
that  Huntington  fortune. 

All  through  the  meal  he  annoyed  her  by  constant  innuendo 
which  he  meant  to  be  subtle  but  which  was  only  sly.  She  said 
nothing  until  Aunt  Abigail  was  locked  in  rigid  slumber,  and 
she  herself  was  sitting  on  the  arm  of  the  old  Washington 
rocker.  The  firelight  softened  the  stiffness  of  the  oval 
portraits  on  the  wall  and  the  picture  of  Nelson's  victory; 
flickered  on  the  model  of  the  ship  on  the  mantel,  the  heavy 
side-board  with  its  huge  lobster-shaped  tureen  and  the  blue 
willow-ware;  and  wove  fantastic  patterns  in  the  variegated 
rag-carpet  on  the  floor. 

But  the  comfort  and  cheer  of  the  hour  vanished  when 
he  took  up  again  the  thread  that  meandered  through 


"FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE"  75 

all  their  conversation,  thoughts,  and  her  very  pattern  of 
life. 

"Well  now — that's  a  sensible  girl.  Just  you  forget  young 
Boltwood.  He  never  was  good  enough  for  my  girl." 

The  black  curls  withdrew  from  his  shoulder,  and  the  girl 
jumped  from  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  said  very  gravely : 

"Now,  Father,  listen.  We  might  as  well  settle  it  once  for 
all.  Don't  you  ever  say  another  word  against  Ben,  or,  much 
as  I  love  you  I'll  leave  you — yes — leave  you.  Something 
tells  me  he  isn't  lost,  but  if  he  were,"  here  the  voice  faltered 
but  she  went  on  heroically, — "if — he  were,  and  something  I 
can't  see  now — made  me  marry  someone  else,  I'd  never  for 
get  him." 

Like  most  bullying  souls  Captain  Fell  was  awed  and 
frightened  by  this  rebellion.  For  all  the  youthful  curls, 
Sally's  black  head  held  a  good  measure  of  wisdom.  Too 
many  dutiful  wives  she  had  seen  cringe  and  efface  themselves 
under  the  tyranny  of  their  men-folk.  She  had  never  cringed, 
though  she  had  done  a  lot  of  effacing  herself,  sometimes  be 
yond  what  was  politic  or  even  necessary,  hating  rows  as  all 
really  feminine  women  do.  But  she  could  turn,  and  after 
that  explosion  Captain  was  much  more  careful.  Yet  it  did 
not  hinder  him,  a  few  days  before  Halloween,  from  endors 
ing  another  invitation  of  Phil's,  though  he  was  a  little  less 
peremptory  about  it. 

"Please  go,"  Philip  had  urged,  in  the  parlour  into  which 
Aunt  Abigail  had  ushered  him,  smilingly  for  once.  And 
wild  and  as  unscrupulous  as  he  was,  the  boy  could  be  quite 
winning  and  gentle  when  he  wanted  something  very  badly. 


76  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Perhaps  his  heart  was  really  touched,  at  least  he  was  piqued 
by  her  elusiveness. 

"You'll  enjoy  it,"  he  pled,  "the  Schaufflers  have  planned 
a  bang-up  party.  Everyone's  going,  and,  besides,  you've 
turned  down  every  invitation  I've  given  you." 

"You  ought  to  go — it's  all  nonsense,  you're  staying  in  like 
this,"  boomed  the  Captain's  voice  from  the  favourite  rocker. 
"Your  cheeks  are  gettin'  as  pale  as  the  white-caps  out  yon 
der,"  and  he  tweaked  them — a  movement  she  hated,  it  was 
so  forever  putting  her  back  in  the  category  of  a  child. 

"Yes,"  put  in  Aunt  Abigail,  from  her  own  stiff-backed 
chair,  "it's  your  duty  to  go." 

Sally  hadn't  at  all  missed  nor  was  she  longing  now  for  the 
attentions  of  Philip  or  any  of  the  Salthaven  young  men, 
eligible  or  otherwise.  For  some  reason  Providence  alone 
knows,  women  have  a  far  better  developed  sense  of  spiritual 
nearness  than  men,  and  ever  since  that  memorable  night 
under  the  Light  she  was  content,  much  of  the  time,  with  the 
invisible  but  very  real  companionship  of  her  wandering 
sweetheart. 

But — well — maybe  she  hadn't  been  quite  fair  to  Phil — 
anyway  she  didn't  want  another  row,  so  she  accepted. 

Promptly  at  eight  on  the  night  of  the  thirtieth  of  October, 
for  "Home  Sweet  Home"  always  strikes  up  at  eleven  at  all 
Salthaven  affairs,  only  smugglers  or  doctors  and  storks  being 
about  later  than  that  hour,  the  Schauffler's  Maggie  ushered 
Sally — "Ladies  to  the  right,  Gen'lemen  to  the  left" — into  the 
guest-room. 

A  moment,  like  the  sea-birds  she  preened  herself,  for  even 


"FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE"  77 

sorrow  cannot  drown  this  most  normal  of  instincts.  The 
large  pier-glass  apparently  approved  the  brown  dress,  simple 
though  it  was,  for  it  fitted  her  silver-birch  symmetry  per 
fectly.  Simple,  too,  were  the  adornments  enforced  by  a  rigid 
economy,  but  the  bitter-sweet  added  exquisite  bits  of  colour. 
They  had  been  crushed  under  her  cloak,  and, straight-seeing 
and  little  given  to  self-pity  as  she  was,  tonight  she  almost 
sentimentalized  over  their  obvious  symbolism  as  she  rear 
ranged  the  vermilion  and  saffron  sprays  on  her  own  troubled 
breast.  But  resolutely  stifling  the  sigh,  she  fluffed  up  the 
scarlet  leaves  and  berries  in  hair  which  almost  held  the  sheen 
of  the  purple  grackles  in  that  earlier  season  when  Ben  was 
still  there,  then  caught  up  a  gift  of  Captain  Harve's,  a  shawl 
from  the  Orient,  and  descended  the  stairs,  her  shoulders 
misted  in  its  transparent  gold. 

"The  very  flower  of  girlhood,"  whispered  kindly  Mrs. 
Schauffler  to  her  husband,  as  they  stood  near  the  door  of  the 
spacious  parlour,  their  silver  hair  framed  in  a  bower  of  russet 
oak-leaves,  asters  and  golden-rod. 

"The  prettiest  girl  in  the  old  town,"  he  paternally  supple 
mented. 

And  instead  of  one  formal  hand,  the  hostess  grasped  both 
of  Sally's  hands  in  her  own,  falling  in  love  with  her  all  over 
again,  as  men  and  women  and  children  had  a  habit  of  doing 
each  time  they  met  her,  while  old  Mr.  Schauffler  teased  her 
as  usual. 

"It's  lucky,  Sally,  that  this  isn't  two  hundred  years  ago — 
you'd  be  hanged  for  witchcraft,  sure — I'll  be  hanged  if  you 
wouldn't !" 


78  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

And  his  wife  added  smilingly: 

"This  dull  old  world  needs  witchcraft  like  yours,  my  dear," 
and  this  time  she  couldn't  resist  kissing  her,  with  an  extra 
tenderness,  perhaps  thinking  of  the  little  tragedy  still  on 
the  boards.  To  her,  as  to  little  Miss  Phoebe,  life  would 
have  been  barren  indeed  without  a  daily  manna  of  romance 
and  sentiment,  and  over  the  bent  head  her  lips  formed  the 
word  "saint,"  adding  the  gentle  reproof, — "Not  hanged  but 
canonized,  you  mean,  Theodore." 

"What !  Train  six-pounders  on  such  a  pretty  clipper !" 
the  old  fellow  retorted,  twinkling  all  over  and  pleased  as 
Punch  at  this  latest  perpetration. 

Then  Sally,  of  course  had  to  look  up,  her  cheeks  rivaling 
the  berries  in  her  hair. 

"Mr.  Huntington  makes  the  best  ships,  Cartwright  the  best 
sails,  Aunt  Presby  the  nicest  pies, — but  Mr.  Schauffler  makes 
the  prettiest  speeches  in  all  Salthaven." 

"Well  returned,  young  lady,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "and 
you  and  my  wife,"  he  added  gallantly,  "the  prettiest  pictures." 

"That's  only  half  true,"  retorted  Sally. 

"No,  it's  all  true.  Now,  may  I  have  the  second  dance? 
I'd  ask  for  the  first  if  Master  Phil  weren't  looking  so  jeal 
ously  at  me." 

"Oh,  please  take  it,"  she  replied,  almost  pleadingly,  then, 
seeing  that  she  was  holding  up  the  chattering  line  behind  her, 
patted  the  handsome  old  man's  arm  and  passed  on,  head  up 
and  smiling. 

The  hour  for  corn-popping,  chestnut-roasting,  and  shivery 
ghost-stories,  over,  the  new  two-hundred  dollar  phonograph. 


"FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE"  79 

a  decided  innovation  in  the  town,  was  duly  cranked  up  by  the 
twinkling  host — and  the  fun  was  on. 

Very  oddly-assorted  couples  two-stepped  and — that  is 
those  of  them  that  could — waltzed  on  the  floor,  for  the 
Schaufflers,  well-bred  people  in  the  best  sense  of  that  term, 
had  veritably  thrown  open  their  doors.  Neither  purse  nor 
family-tree  determined  the  invitations ;  all  who  were  whole 
some  and  spiritually  sound,  in  short  "real  folks,"  had  been 
bidden  to  the  feast. 

Ben  Stout,  the  driver  of  the  famous  horse-car,  furnished 
the  low  comedy,  while  Mr.  Mather,  the  gold-spectacled  prin 
cipal  of  the  school,  essayed  the  high,  each  "monkeyshine"  and 
quip  being  impartially  rewarded  with  many-keyed  laughter, 
although  the  latter's  classical  allusions  were  seldom  under 
stood.  And  Phil  gracefully  steered  Sally  among  the  bounc 
ing  couples  in  the  second  dance,  which  he  claimed,  while 
Lizzie  Rountree,  the  tiny  little  milliner  with  the  round  eyes 
and  crab-apple  cheeks,  hopped  happily  with  good  old  Dr. 
Ferguson;  Don,  the  poorly-dressed  son  of  the  widow  Wig 
gins,  led  Mrs.  Schauffler  on  the  floor,  she  not  minding  a  bit 
when  he  ruined  her  train;  Mr.  Schauffler's  handsome  figure 
escorted  the  pathetic  grey  little  slip  of  the  widow  herself; 
and  He  who  attended  the  lowly  wedding  in  Galilee,  which 
some  of  the  well-tailored  Pharisees  with  large  bank  accounts 
declared  "was  so  mixed,  you  know,"  must  have  smiled  ap 
proval  that  night. 

The  wholesome  fun  and  colour  fed  brightly-tinted  fancies 
to  the  busy  shuttle  of  the  girl's  brain,  though  two  of  darker 
hue  were  constantly  weaving  in  and  out  of  the  pattern, — the 


8o  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

thoughts  of  Ben's  absence  and  a  certain  look  in  Philip's  eyes, 
portending  that  something  she  had  long  feared,  something 
she  knew  he  and  her  father  and  Aunt  Abigail  were  doing 
their  utmost  to  bring  about. 

"Isn't  this  a  peach  of  a  waltz,  Sally  ?" 

"Yes — but  it  isn't  a  clingstone.    Don't  hold  me  so  tight." 

"That  wasn't  tight,  Sally." 

"Tighter  than  necessary,"  and  then,  because  she  was 
worried,  she  snapped, — "You  heard  what  I  said." 

"Why  are  you  so  stand-offish  with  me,  Sally?" 

She  relented. 

"I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  be.  If  there's  one  thing  I  can't 
stand  in  people  it's  not  being  true  to  their  friends."  She 
was  hoping  he  would  accept  that  construction — it  was  getting 
to  be  a  euphemism  as  it  was — "I  hope  I'm  not  that  way  my 
self,"  she  finished. 

"You've  avoided  me,  haven't  you  now  ?" 

Sally's  blush  was  very  red,  the  answering  fib  white : 

"N-n-no." 

Not  having  entirely  escaped  the  Puritan  curse  of  hyper- 
conscience,  she  felt  guilty,  although  all  her  avoidance  had 
been  mere  self-defence.  He  reversed — she  couldn't  help 
noticing  that  he  did  it  beautifully — she  tried  the  same 
manoeuvre  with  the  conversation : 

"Isn't  the  colouring  of  those  leaves  over  there  beautiful  ?" 

It  was  too  abrupt,  and  the  trick  didn't  work. 

"Almost  as  pretty  as  you  are  in  that  dress." 

"Well,  Phil,  if  you  won't  take  a  hint,  I'll  ask  you  right  out 
plain.  Please  don't  be  personal,  tonight  or  any  night.  Let's 


"FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE"  81 

change  the  subject  from  me  to  something  else — leaves,  danc 
ing,  anything — let's  talk  of  Stella!" 

This  last  subject,  to  which  Sally  referred  a  little 
maliciously,  had  just  been  thrust  upon  them  by  fat  Billy 
Plum,  who  did  most  of  his  dancing  pump-handle  fashion 
with  his  arms,  to  Stella's  evident  disgust.  Phil  skilfully 
steered  away  from  the  impending  collision  while  Stella  gazed 
soul  fully  over  Billy's  fat  shoulder  at  the  fascinating  cavalier. 

"I  won't  change  the  subject,  now  I've  got  you  here,"  per 
sisted  Sally's  escort.  "I'm  going  to  tell  you  what  I  think 
of  you." 

"Why,  Phil,  I  haven't  intended  to  be  mean  to  you.  If  I 
have,  I  do  beg  your  pardon,  indeed  I  do." 

"That  wasn't  what  I  meant.  Shall  I  really  tell  you  what 
I  think  of  you?" 

"Oh,  Phil,  please  don't  be  personal  again  or  I'll  stop  danc 
ing." 

"Not  while  I've  got  my  chance — Sally  I  love  you." 

The  girl  went  white,  stopped  short  with  the  music,  writhed 
from  his  grasp,  and  hurried  towards  her  hostess,  calling  in 
agitation : 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Schauffler,  I  have  a  message  for  you." 

Safe  within  the  shelter  of  that  kindly  lady's  wing,  she 
stammered : 

"Mrs.  Schauffler,  I  hate  to  leave  right  now,  but  I  have  a 
headache  and " 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,  dear,"  and  she  looked  anxiously  at  the 
pretty  flushed  face,  reading  there  signs  of  other  troubles 
besides  the  alleged  indisposition.  "Just  run  upstairs  and  lie 


82  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

down  on  the  couch.  You'll  be  better  in  a  moment — here  are 
the  salts — wait  a  second,  Sally,  and  I'll  go  with  you." 

"No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Schauffler" — the  girl  was  de 
termined  not  to  give  Phil  any  further  chance  of  continuing 
the  disagreeable  subject  on  the  walk  home — "I  hate  to  leave, 
for  you've  given  me  a  lovely  time — but  I  must  go  now — I'll 
tell  you  about  it  some  other  time." 

Seeing  her  very  real  distress,  Mrs.  Schauffler  no  longer 
protested. 

"All  right,  dear.  Don't  you  worry.  Theodore" — she  called 
to  her  husband. 

"Oh,  don't  bother,  Mrs.  Schauffler,  I  can  run  home  alone. 
The  moon  is  up  and  it  isn't  dark." 

"Go  alone?  I  should  say  not,"  briskly  interjected  the  old 
gentleman.  "You've  been  favouring  the  young  squirts  all  the 
evening.  Now  we  old  fellows  have  our  innings,"  then  to 
overcome  her  reluctance  he  whispered, — "besides,  you'll  do 
me  a  favour.  I'm  dying  for  a  smoke." 

So  after  all,  Phil  saw  Stella  home  and  thereby  gained  the 
parting  kiss  at  the  gate,  which  many  Salthaven  girls  allowed 
as  the  proper  finish  to  an  enjoyable  party,  but  which  Sally 
would  as  certainly  have  denied. 

It  was  a  more  mystical  caress  she  was  venturing  at  her 
window,  that  window  over  whose  sill  she  had  climbed  that 
memorable  night,  three  months  ago.  She  threw  open  her 
shutters.  The  wind  drove  the  grey  gondolas  of  the  clouds 
across  the  wistful  face  of  the  moon.  They  were  sailing 
south ! 

Taking  the  leaves  from  her  hair,  she  kissed  them,  then 


"FAITHFUL  AND  TRUE"  83 

tossed  them  over  the  sill.  And  the  wind  took  the  scarlet 
messengers,  frail  and  intangible  and  warm-coloured  as  her 
own  thoughts,  twirling  them,  spinning  them,  as  if  weighing 
them  in  its  buffeting  palms,  then  drove  them,  too,  to  the 
south.  Was  it  there?  Perhaps  in  those  shining  islands! 
Anyway  as,  following  the  old,  foolish  custom  of  leal  daugh 
ters  of  the  sea,  she  took  her  lamp  and  placed  it  in  her  win 
dow,  she  whispered  a  prayer  that  they  might  be  wafted  to 
where  ever  it  was. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE    ISLE    OF    GREEN    STAIRWAYS 

AFTER  a  refreshing  but  cautious  draught,  the  shipwrecked 
sailor  tumbled  on  a  clump  of  fern  under  a  colonnade  of 
royal  palms,  and  fell  asleep.  The  sun  had  been  within  two 
hours  of  the  Zenith  when  he  drifted  away  into  that  deep  un 
consciousness.  It  was  but  two  hours  from  its  own  resting- 
place  when  he  awoke,  to  the  rapid  alarum  of  a  voluble  par 
rot,  whose  plumage,  as  seen  through  the  palm-leaves  above 
him,  was  a  splashing  design  in  cubist  planes  of  scarlet,  indigo, 
and  green. 

It  isn't  the  first  days  of  isolation,  any  more  than  the  period 
immediately  following  a  bereavement,  in  which  the  full 
weight  of  loneliness  is  felt,  and  the  boy,  on  arising,  felt 
strangely  refreshed,  and  yet  incomprehensively  light  of  head. 

Nor  was  it  so  much  the  hunger  and  exposure — he  was  in 
ured  to  these — as  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  itself.  It  had  a 
singular  clarity — the  pristine  purity  of  spring- waters  or 
dews  of  Eden  transmuted  into  ozone,  while  still  retaining 
the  soft-hued,  dream-commingled  drowsiness  of  some  potent 
drug.  It  was  as  though  this  opiate  quality  which  tinctured 
every  breath  he  drew,  every  space  the  eye  dwelt  on,  had 
been  compounded  of  the  myriad  hues  of  the  vernal  wilder- 

84 


THE  ISLE  OF  GREEN  STAIRWAYS          85 

ness  that  fronted  him, — a  wavering,  softly-shimmering 
kaleidoscope  of  tree  and  vine  and  flower,  set  in  tremulous 
motion  by  the  most  wooing  of  breezes.  Line  or  curve  he 
could  not  distinguish,  only  blurred  masses  of  form  and  colour. 
In  all  that  green  paradise  the  parrot's  shriek  was  the  only 
concrete  thing. 

He  turned  his  back  upon  it,  to  meet  the  more  clearly-cut 
curve  of  a  white,  coral-flushed  shore,  and  suddenly  the  vague 
spell  of  the  place  assumed  the  sharper  proportions  of  hunger. 

A  green,  checker-backed  turtle  basked  on  the  beach.  A 
swift  somersault,  and  it  lay  flapping  ludicrously  on  its  back. 
Innumerable  crayfish,  too,  wriggled  their  prankish  tentacles 
in  the  water.  The  flesh  might  have  been  eaten  raw  in  ex 
tremity,  and  a  three  days'  fast  could  fairly  be  considered  that, 
but  first  he  took  stock  of  his  equipment. 

A  search  in  his  pockets  revealed  a  clasp-knife,  almost 
soldered  fast  by  rust,  and  the  lens  of  a  broken  glass,  which 
fortunately  he  had  stowed  away  for  safe-keeping,  the  day 
before  the  wreck. 

With  the  latter  he  stole  a  little  of  the  sun's  flame,  concen 
trating  it  on  a  heap  of  leaves  and  dried  twigs.  Soon  a  fire 
flagged  its  rosy  invitation  to  the  solitary  banquet. 

On  the  following  day  he  added  to  this  meagre  menu  with 
the  aid  of  a  crude  but  efficient  bow,  made  of  resilient  vines 
and  boughs,  a  sharp  stone  serving  for  the  arrow-head.  The 
island  abounded  in  "agouti,"  little  animals  resembling  prairie- 
dogs  in  size  and  shape,  and  their  flesh  he  found  to  be  not 
entirely  unpalatable.  The  leaves  of  the  wild  plantain,  too, 
were  edible.  A  foray  farther  into  the  heart  of  the  mysterious 


86  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

wilderness  produced  tropical  fruits ;  and  on  the  rougher  west 
coast  of  the  island  was  a  rendezvous  of  sea-birds  which 
added  new  delicacies  to  the  lost  sailor's  larder. 

Other  tools  he  contrived, — a  spade  from  a  flat  stone, 
roughly  sharpened  by  chipping  it  with  another,  then  set  in 
a  cleft  bamboo  reed,  and  bound  with  tough  vines ;  a  hammer 
similarly  fabricated;  and  an  axe  of  disappointing  dulness. 

Fortunately,  long  handling  of  ropes  rendered  his  hands 
proof  against  blisters,  and  on  the  thirtieth  day,  so  busily 
did  he  work,  the,  house-warming  of  a  little  hut  was  celebrated. 
Save  for  the  jabber  of  the  parrot  and  the  scream  of  some 
harsh  macaw,  it  was  a  very  silent  occasion.  There  was  only 
one  guest,  and  she  never  spoke.  Yet  the  boy  was  sure  the 
place  echoed  to  her  silent  laughter.  The  day  was  to  come, 
perhaps,  when  it  would  only  mock  him,  but  now  he  could 
hear  its  lilt  pleasantly  everywhere, — in  the  breeze  ruffling 
the  palm-fronds,  the  very  silver  break  of  the  waves  on  the 
beach,  and  its  overtones  always  in  the  bubbling  of  the  spring. 

The  hut  had  one  room,  quite  sufficient  for  his  needs.  His 
cooking  was  done  on  hollowed  stones  in  the  open.  Sweet- 
fern  and  palm-leaves  furnished  his  bedding.  Yet  he  ate 
plentifully  and  slept  soundly,  though  all  too  drowsily,  for 
some  time  at  least.  On  his  square  shoulders  was  set  a  very 
level  head,  and  on  one  thing  he  was  stoutly  determined, — 
he  would  not  let  the  loneliness,  the  overcompelling  mystery, 
"get  his  nerve,"  as  hour  by  hour  they  threatened.  Some  day 
he  would  see  Sally  again.  Either  he  would  get  to  her,  or 
she  would  come  to  him.  Over  and  over  he  said  it  to 
himself. 


THE  ISLE  OF  GREEN  STAIRWAYS         87 

To  record  the  slow  passage  of  time  until  that  blessed 
reunion,  he  named  the  twelve  royal  palms  that  guarded  the 
spring  from  which  he  had  first  drunk  when  cast  on  the 
island,  according  to  the  months,  cutting  on  the  proper  trunk 
a  broad  nick  each  time  the  sun  rose. 

"I'm  sure  a  magician,"  he  said  to  himself,  for,  with  a 
courage  more  admirable  than  his  humour,  he  often  fashioned 
naive  conceits  as  well  as  more  ponderable  weapons  for  his 
fight  against  despair — "with  my  little  knife  I've  changed  a 
cocoa  into  a  sure-enough  date-palm." 

Occasionally  he  even  chaffed  or  cracked  boyish  jokes  with 
himself  and  his  strange  audience,  constituting  himself  a 
whole  minstrel  show, — "Mistah  Interlocutah,"  "Endman," 
"Bones,"  and  "chorus,"  to  the  amazement  of  the  agouti,  the 
"gab-birds,"  as  he  dubbed  the  brilliant  parrots  and  macaws, 
and  those  beautiful  winged  creatures  of  such  bright  azure  he 
called  them  "Heaven-birds."  Some  of  them  even  came  to 
know  him,  the  more  trusting  responding  to  his  whistle,  and 
he  never  violated  the  confidence  once  given  by  these  furred 
and  feathered  waifs,  only  the  wilder  serving  as  game  for 
his  primitive  weapons. 

So  his  life  was  made  up  of  two  contrasting  existences,  and 
his  eternal  struggle  between  them — between  the  oppressive, 
almost  supernatural,  spell  of  the  place,  the  loneliness,  and 
the  daily  routine  and  fight  for  very  survival.  As  the  months 
passed  by,  he  doubled  his  efforts  to  keep  his  sanity  by 
absorption  in  practical  tasks,  those  absolutely  necessary,  and 
others  which  he  was  constantly  contriving. 

The  inland  mystery  of  the  island  he  had  never  penetrated 


88  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

— he  almost  feared  it — but  now  that  the  building  of  the  hut, 
the  manufacture  of  his  weapons,  and  the  stocking  of  his 
larder,  had  secured  shelter  and  sustenance,  he  was  resolved 
to  conquer  that  dread.  So,  immediately  after  the  house- 
warming,  he  started  a  tour  of  exploration,  noting  his  dis 
coveries  on  a  rough  chart  made  of  bark  from  the  widest 
girthed  tree  he  could  strip.  Some  human  habitation  he 
might  find,  although  he  doubted  that,  and  perhaps  the 
charting  of  the  place  in  actual  visual  lines  would  give  tangi 
ble  form  to  its  haunting  vagueness,  dispel  the  mystery,  which 
for  all  its  loveliness  he  felt  to  be  unholy  and  ominous. 

"The  Two  Horns,"  as  he  called  the  capes  encircling  the 
bay,  he  first  traced  on  the  map.  Then  because  of  the  many 
hues  shimmering  in  the  waters  between  them,  he  carved  the 
letters  "Rainbow  Bay,"  although  he  was  tempted  to  change 
the  name  to  one  more  fanciful  when  he  gazed  down  through 
the  pellucid  depths  at  the  odd  sea  forms  and  quaint  sea 
fauna,  lying  still  at  the  bottom  or  crawling  lumberingly 
away. 

Little  sea-horses  like  animated  chessmen  floated  through 
the  waters,  their  heads  held  high,  and  seemingly  propelled 
by  no  motive  power  but  the  buoyancy  of  their  own  mettle; 
and  grotesque  toad-fish;  and  warted  creatures;  and  ludi 
crously  misshapen  things  with  toothed  claws  of  vermilion; 
and  angel-fish  with  mouths  whose  hideousness  was  swathed 
in  scarflike  fins  of  an  infinitely  delicate  hue  and  texture. 
Each  tint  a  poem;  each  fin  a  flame  that  water  could  not 
quench;  each  claw  a  most  prodigious  joke!  The  little  jokes 
of  God,  as  he  had  once  told  Sally — so  long  ago  it  seemed. 


THE  ISLE  OF  GREEN  STAIRWAYS         89 

The  aquarium,  fathoms  deep  yet  crystal-clear,  was  a  vast 
depository  of  them, — the  beauty,  the  humour,  the  fancies, 
the  wondrous  figments  of  the  imagination  of  the  Almighty. 
One  had  but  to  look  down  into  the  waters  to  realize  an 
infinite  variety  which  far  outranged  the  venge fulness  or 
mercy,  the  two  lone  attributes  with  which  past  ages  have 
credited  Him. 

The  island  itself  he  christened  "The  Island  of  Green 
Stairways,"  a  happy  title,  suggested  by  the  view  from  the 
bay,  looking  upward  and  to  the  South.  From  the  pink  and 
white  shore,  it  rose  in  a  beautiful  succession  of  table-lands 
covered  with  rich  foliage  of  varying  shades,  that  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  green  terraces  or  stairways  designed  for 
some  giant's  ascent  to  "Cone  Mountain,"  a  height  of  some 
two  thousand  feet,  sometimes  blue  as  smoke  from  a  woodfire 
in  the  forest,  at  others  tinted  the  darker  hue  of  a  swallow's 
wings.  Yet  even  here,  on  the  unencumbered  shore,  outside 
of  the  bewildering  green  wildwood  inland,  as  his  eye  followed 
palm  coronal,  and  plumed  terrace  after  plumed  terrace,  to 
the  mountain,  the  same  sense  of  unreality  held.  The  per 
spectives  were  bewildering,  like  those  in  the  vistas  of  Ver 
sailles,  now  limned  as  on  a  vertical  canvas  suspended  near 
one's  eyes,  again  as  though  lengthened  by  a  camera  lens  to 
poetic  distances. 

However,  in  infinite  attention  to  practical  detail  lay  salva 
tion,  and  he  returned  to  the  shoreline  again,  curving  around 
it  until  he  reached  the  more  jagged  volcanic  shore  to  the 
East,  indented  by  little  unnavigable  bays,  and  one  of  deeper 
water,  though  not  so  favourable  as  that  between  the  Twin 


90  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Horns.  This,  the  haunt  of  innumerable,  skirling  seafowl, 
went  down  on  the  chart  as  "Plover  Bay." 

Now,  with  the  spring  again  as  the  starting  point,  his 
knife  swung  to  the  West,  past  the  limestone  cliffs  of  Coral 
Cove  (just  west  of  the  capes)  to  the  great  "Cave  of  Night," 
two  miles  and  three-quarters,  as  the  crow  flies,  from  his 
home.  Its  roof,  at  least  sixty  feet  high,  was  plastered  all 
over  with  nests  like  those  of  martins,  but  larger  and  only 
dimly  descried.  Through  the  eternal  darkness  sounded  the 
strange  cries  of  nightbirds,  whose  wheeling  bodies  melted 
into  the  inky  blackness  of  the  vault  until  they  became  mere 
flitting  pairs  of  eyes. 

Fleeing  this  ghoulish  aviary,  he  hurried  home,  and  on  the 
following  morning  took  his  most  extensive  tour,  through  the 
heart  of  the  island,  due  south  from  the  hut. 

Leaving  the  coral-tinted  beach  and  its  border  of  feather- 
topped  pines,  he  passed  through  acres  of  sworded  thicket, 
then  the  rich  foliage  of  several  successive  terraces,  prolific 
with  mangoes,  oranges,  limes,  nutmegs,  and  other  once  culti 
vated  fruits,  all  mingling  with  the  wild  and  giving  evidence 
that  long  ago  beings  of  his  own  kind  had  dwelt  in  this 
beautiful,  forgotten  fragment  of  the  earth. 

As  he  ascended,  over  him  towered  gigantic  trees, — ma 
hogany,  dye,  and  fine  cabinet  woods,  and  everywhere,  criss 
crossing  between  their  mighty  boles,  stretched  like  a  maze  of 
ship's  ropes  the  stout  liana  vines.  Their  roots  were  covered 
by  an  even  more  impenetrable  labyrinth  of  weed,  and  bush, 
and  hidden  trailer,  all  as  riotous  in  colour  as  in  their  bewilder 
ing  disorder.  The  sombreness  of  the  trees  was  richly  tinted 


THE  ISLE  OF  GREEN  STAIRWAYS         91 

by  the  warm  hues  of  silver  and  golden  tree-ferns,  the  delicate 
hues  of  myriad  lichens  and  parasites,  and  here  and  there 
picked  out  by  the  crimson  beauty  of  the  Mountain  Rose. 
And  ever  hither  and  thither  among  the  trees  and  vine- 
mazes  darted  wild  blue  pigeons,  while  above  the  thickly 
netted  vines  hummingbirds  hung  suspended  like  little  thrum 
ming  ruby  gyroscopes. 

The  bewildering  intricacies  of  blade,  and  frond,  and 
trunk,  and  vine,  of  colour,  light,  and  shadow,  were  so 
overpowering  that  he  felt  enmeshed  and  longed  for  some 
thing  clear-cut,  like  the  simple  outlines  of  old  New  England 
roofs,  or  the  familiar  spars  and  cordage  of  a  ship.  It 
seemed  as  if  some  form  must  shortly  disentangle  itself  from 
the  green  labyrinth,  some  half -human  thing  with  body  of 
faun  or  satyr,  perhaps,  but  with  at  least  the  semblance  of 
human  lineament.  The  absence  was  uncanny. 

Sometimes  he  thought  he  heard  hallooing,  faint  and  afar- 
off,  and  he  ran  after  the  fancies  until  he  stumbled  over 
some  natural  abattis.  Then,  recovering  his  footing  and 
fortitude,  he  dismissed  the  wild  imaginings  from  his  mind. 

Now,  as  the  terraces  ranged  on  and  up,  the  tangle  thinned 
out,  and  the  trees  loomed  higher  and  higher,  like  columns 
supporting  the  rent  blue  roof  of  the  sky.  So  deep  was  the 
twilight  and  so  majestic  the  upward  sweep  of  the  Gothic 
shafts  that  in  the  silence,  broken  only  by  the  cataract's 
thunder,  the  castaway  christened  this  highest  terrace 
"Cathedral  Woods."  But  the  organ-music  of  the  waterfall 
was  sharply  pierced  by  the  shriek  of  the  birds  above,  whose 
harshness  belied  their  gorgeous  colouring.  Harsh,  harsh, 


92  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

always  harsh  they  were,  though  garbed  in  the  raiment  of 
Paradise,  always  striking  the  discordant,  unholy  note,  and 
profaning  this  shrine  of  Nature  as  gargoyles  the  pure  faqade 
of  some  old-world  cathedral.  To  the  wanderer  it  seemed 
not  only  impious  but  a  foreshadowing  of  impending  evil. 

He  followed  the  cataract's  thunder  and  came  upon  a 
gorge  as  regularly  cleft  as  though  cut  by  some  Olympian 
battle-axe,  and  separating  Cathedral  Woods,  on  the  West, 
from  the  last  short  climb  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain. 

Over  its  edge  leapt  a  white  streak  of  waterfall  with  a 
sheer  drop  of  four  hundred  feet.  The  almost  supernatural 
beauty  of  the  place,  the  lack  of  human  companionship,  and 
his  lonely  lover's  dreams,  had  set  the  boy  to  the  making  of 
poetic  figures,  which  would  have  surprised  even  Captain 
Fairwinds,  and  further  increased  the  distrust  of  Captain 
Bluster,  who  with  a  pachydermic  matter-of-factness  would 
have  despised  such  "loony"  tendencies.  At  any  other  time, 
in  any  other  place,  the  boy  would  have  been  equally  ashamed 
of  himself  as  a  sentimental  fool,  but  he  had  been  transported 
back  a  thousand  years,  his  fancy  quickened  and  equipped 
with  all  the  rich  imagery  of  races  in  the  dawn  of  the  world. 
So  when  he  gazed  down  the  sheer  side  of  the  cliff,  with  a 
sudden  catch  in  his  throat  he  saw  her  face,  on  the  wedding 
day  that  was  to  be,  misted  in  the  white  wonder  of  the  ever- 
falling  water,  and  with  the  vision  was  born  the  sobriquet. 
Not  for  worlds  would  he  have  told  it  to  a  soul,  had  there 
been  any  to  receive  his  confidences,  nevertheless  as  "Sally's 
Bridal  Veil"  it  went  down  on  the  chart. 

Over  the  gorge  stretched  another  trace  of  human  occupa- 


THE  ISLE  OF  GREEN  STAIRWAYS         93 

tion, — a  half-rotting  suspension  bridge,  built  of  liana  vines. 
He  essayed  the  passage  fearfully.  The  frail  structure 
swayed  above  the  cataract's  thunder,  but  he  reached  the 
other  side  in  safety,  and  climbed  to  the  summit  of  the 
mountain.  From  a  distance  it  had  seemed  a  perfect  blue 
cone,  but  here  the  explorer  saw  that  a  few  thousand  feet 
had  been  decapitated  or  blown  away  by  some  volcanic 
eruption,  leaving  a  little  seething,  sulphurous  lake,  shaped 
like  a  saucer  with  brown  and  yellow,  cliff-like  sides,  and 
properly  recorded  on  the  map  as  "Davy  Jones'  Saucer." 

The  boy  turned  his  face  away  from  the  mountain,  and 
gazed  over  the  beauty  of  The  Isle  of  Green  Stairways  and 
far  away  over  the  surrounding  blue  radiance  of  the  ocean, 
but  there  was  no  cheering  touch  of  white  to  tell  a  sail,  or 
any  smudge  of  steamer  smoke  to  mar  its  purity. 

A  little  later,  in  the  twilight,  he  descended,  vastly  de 
pressed,  to  the  hut,  and  fell  asleep. 

On  the  following  week  he  again  made  the  journey  through 
Cathedral  Woods  to  Cone  Mountain,  and  this  time  saw, 
leagues  to  the  Northeast,  the  longed-for  smoke  on  the 
horizon  rim.  Frantically  he  built  huge  fires,  but  in  an  hour 
the  smoke  had  melted  into  thin  air. 

If  he  had  had  a  powerful  glass  instead  of  the  one  broken 
lens,  he  might  have  seen  a  trim  schooner  yacht  with  a 
Bohemian  party  aboard,  bound  on  a  cruise  of  the  West 
Indies.  From  the  deck  of  the  yacht,  the  owner  and  skipper 
saw  the  smoke  of  Ben's  signal  fires,  but  fancied  it  the  vapour 
of  some  inactive  volcano.  Though  they  sailed  away,  one  of 
the  party  all  unconsciously  performed  a  service  for  the 


94  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

castaway.  In  an  exuberance  of  spirits,  a  woman  guest 
hurled  a  half-emptied  champagne  bottle  into  the  waves. 
Favouring  winds  carried  it  to  the  shore  of  Rainbow  Bay,  and 
a  week  later,  Ben,  while  walking  along  the  sands,  discovered 
it,  cast  up  by  the  receding  tide,  and  now  clutched  in  the  em 
brace  of  a  landcrab  which  crawled  awkwardly  away  at  his 
approach.  The  champagne  in  the  bottle  was  stale — anyway 
Ben  had  no  stomach  for  it.  But  an  old,  old  idea  occurred  to 
him,  and  he  decided  to  try  the  thousand-in-one,  forlorn,  last 
chance  it  offered. 

"If  that  bottle  has  taken  a  trip  all  the  way  from  civiliza 
tion — if  you  call  it  that — why,  maybe  it  can  find  its  way 
back." 

So  on  a  piece  of  bark,  he  cut  the  message: 

"Shipwrecked  on  island — about  Lat.  18  N. 
Long.  62  W.     Alive.     Well.     Notify 
Capt.  H.  Brent  &  Miss  Sally  Fell 
at  Salthaven,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 

Benj.  Boltwood, 

form,  mate  Bark  Provincetown." 

"Landlubber's  calculation,"  he  grumbled  to  himself,  "but 
maybe  it  won't  miss  it  by  more  'n  a  hundred  miles." 

The  old  cork  was  too  swollen  to  be  replaced,  so  he 
fashioned  a  new  one  from  a  bit  he  found  in  the  flotsam  on 
the  beach,  then  very  carefully  fitted  it  in  the  mouth,  walked 
to  the  end  of  the  southern  Horn  and  swam  out  to  sea.  To 
the  westward-moving  current  he  gave  the  bottle  with  a  wish 


THE  ISLE  OF  GREEN  STAIRWAYS         95 

or  prayer — or  whatever  it  is  that  an  unsentimental  but  des 
pairing  sailor  would  utter — then  swam  back  swiftly,  for 
fear  of  the  finny  picaroons,  the  only  ones  that  seemed  now 
to  roam  these  waters.  But  even  of  that  he  was  not  so  sure. 


CHAPTER    XI 
WINDS  OF  CHANCE 

LONG  that  night  the  boy  lay,  couched  on  his  bed  of  fern, 
and  watched  the  gold  and  purple  cyclorama  of  the  night 
wheel  over  the  coronals  of  the  palms.  Leagues  to  the  North 
a  girl  sat,  draped  in  a  blue  and  white  counterpane,  listening 
to  the  ticking  of  the  old  Seth  Thomas  in  the  hall,  and 
wished  she  could  cry  herself  to  sleep. 

But  the  voyage  of  the  bottle  had  begun — the  tiniest  of 
objects  to  outwit  Fate,  or  else  to  consummate  his  plans. 

Flowing  in  from  the  Atlantic,  the  ocean  currents  and 
their  sighing  overtones,  the  winds,  bore  it  on  and  on  to  the 
West,  past  storied  islands,  like  jewels  adorning  the  burnished 
breastplate  of  the  sea,  some  crowned  with  massive  overhang 
ing  mountains,  others  nestling  low  on  the  waters,  rich  with 
fertile  plantations  and  white-walled,  red-roofed  towns, 
steeped  in  molten  sunshine,  and  slumbering  'neath  royal 
palms —  picturesque,  unsewered,  full  of  white  palaces  and 
mired,  insect-ridden  slums,  yet  all  beautiful  to  look  at  from 
the  sea,  for  the  fairest  hues  are  often  born  out  of  corruption. 

Now  the  bottle  was  almost  caught  and  churned  to  pieces 
in  the  swirl  from  a  fruit-steamer's  screw.  Near  St.  Kitts, 
a  gaudily-painted  pleasure  craft  hove  in  sight;  a  mulatto's 

96 


WINDS  OF  CHANCE  97 

hand  tried  to  grasp  the  long  neck,  but  it  bobbed  out  of  reach. 
Above  him,  a  girl,  Cooks-touring  the  Indies,  called: 

"Sort  of  a  message  from  home." 

He  heard  her,  and  their  mingling  laughter  came  through 
the  porthole,  his  with  the  mellow  gold  of  the  negro,  hers  all 
staccato  and  silver. 

Then  the  currents  swept  the  bottle  through  the  straits  of 
the  Greater  Antilles,  until  it  floated  with  the  myriad  islands 
of  seaweed  on  the  waters  of  the  Gulf,  then  swung  it  to  the 
North  beyond  the  Florida  Keys. 

And  so  the  seasons  passed,  and  many  wonderful  sights 
it  could  have  seen,  had  it  eyes  and  a  soul,  which  it  should 
have  had  with  that  message  inside,  but  it  was  only  a  thing 
of  sand  and  potash  and  lead-oxide,  subject  to  immutable 
laws  of  wind  and  moon  and  tide,  not  caring  at  all  about 
the  loves  of  two  mortals  as  frail  and  puny  as  itself. 

So  they  came  and  went, — the  white  wings  of  many  ships, 
low-waisted  tramps,  sullen  derelicts,  and  once,  after  a  storm, 
a  raft  of  ship's  timbers  hastily  lashed  together,  and  on  it 
a  gigantic  black  with  hollow  eyes  and  emaciated  cheeks,  and 
around  it  those  ever-winking  fins. 

Now  the  bottle  was  nosed  by  a  school  of  porpoises  curvet 
ing  over  the  foam-curdled  crests,  their  sleek  sides  turning 
to  dusky  rainbows  in  the  sun.  And  again  the  twin  masts  of 
a  steam-yacht  pricked  the  horizon,  then  came  daintily  step 
ping  over  the  waves.  On  its  deck  lay  a  great  railroad  king 
whose  wallet  had  digested  millions  of  securities  in  perfect 
comfort,  but  whose  stomach  could  not  even  assimilate  curds 

and  whey. 

^ 


98  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

And  at  last  came  bearing  down  on  the  bottle,  the  ship 
from  the  North  that  might  have  been  Destiny's  own.  Under 
the  overhanging  stern  were  the  letters, — "Mary  Ann, 
Salthavcn,  Mass.,"  and  from  its  quarterdeck  a  child  perilously 
leaned  over  the  rail,  piping  in  the  smallest  of  trebles  : 

"Daddy,  see  the  bottle — it's  dancing  on  the  waves!" 

But  the  bottle  with  the  insistent  message,  of  course,  never 
answered  at  all,  or  clamoured,  or  even  dislocated  the  cork 
in  its  neck,  through  any  effort  to  be  heard. 

So  shark  and  wreckage,  spar  and  life-belt,  tree  and 
seaweed,  flower  and  dead  men,  floated  by.  So  cape  and 
headland,  and  suns  and  storms,  and  winds  and  tides  and 
seasons,  passed;  and  countless  tiny  white  wings  in  the 
blue  above,  and  the  great  white  wings  of  the  ships  on  the 
blue  beneath,  and  still  the  unthinking  bottle  danced  gaily, 
almost  sportively,  on  the  waves. 


CHAPTER  XII 
SPRING 

IT  was  in  April  that  the  news  had  come.  The  bottle  was 
tossing,  God  knows  where;  the  thirteenth  nick  had  just  been 
cut  in  the  eighth  trunk  of  Ben's  tree  calendar ;  and  Sally 
was  making  her  two-hundred  and  fifty-seventh  trip — since 
that  night  under  the  Light — to  the  postoffice,  each  pilgrimage 
a  Via  Dolorosa  now.  Again  on  the  top  step  she  paused  to 
scan  the  horizon,  but  her  gaze  was  stopped  midway  by  a 
crowd  gathered  in  front  of  Comby's  drugstore.  She 
recognized  its  focus,  a  strangely  gesturing  courier  from  the 
sea,  in  tattered  blouse  and  water-stained  trousers.  It  was 
Martin  Rogers,  the  ship's  carpenter  of  the  missing 
Pr  ovine  down. 

Over  the  nodding  heads  of  his  audience  he  caught  sight 
of  her  half  eager,  half-fearful  look,  and  stopped  his  dramatic 
recital  in  embarrassment. 

Straight  to  him  she  went. 

"Where  is  Ben?"  was  all  she  said. 

Neither  in  the  serene  sky  nor  in  the  transfixed  faces  of 
the  crowd  could  the  distressed  mariner  find  an  answer.  He 
fumbled  at  his  pockets,  and  dug  the  toes  of  his  shoes, 
almost  petrified  with  water,  between  the  pavement  cracks, 

99 


ioo  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

looking  almost  as  if  guilty  of  the  old  ocean's  crime  him 
self. 

But  the  girl's  hands  never  relinquished  their  grasp,  and 
the  dark  eyes  gazing  straight  into  his  own  compelled  an 
answer. 

"There  was  a  storm.  Sally — and  Ben — wouldn't  leave  the 
ship." 

She  recoiled — swayed  a  little,  then,  gathering  her  strength, 
demanded  in  a  voice  whose  shrillness  was  strangely  different 
from  the  musical  tones  her  neighbours  had  always  known : 

"But  you  saved  him — somebody  saved  him — oh,  tell  me 
the  rest — tell  me  the  rest " 

But  Martin's  answer  to  the  plea  of  her  voice  and  out 
stretched  hands  was  a  mute  shake  of  the  head. 

There  were  no  outcries,  only  a  heart-quiver  that  made  her 
tremble.  Some  of  the  good  people  stretched  out  their  arms 
in  pity  to  steady  her,  but  she  straightened,  and  the  look  on 
her  face  stayed  their  kindly  impulses.  Silently  they  again 
opened  the  circle  and  out  she  passed,  and  on  over  the  Square 
and  up  the  hill  to  her  home.  And  although  everyone  in 
Salthaven  saw  the  mute  evidence  in  her  face,  no  one  then 
or  ever  after  heard  her  speak  of  her  grief.  Only  the 
wind  on  the  dunes  and  the  waves  knew,  and  the  Light, 
and  for  all  their  eloquent  whispers  or  bright  illuminings, 
none  can  ever  apostrophize  them  into  betrayal  of  confidence 
or  counsel. 

Quenched  was  all  the  old  sparkle,  broken  the  blithe 
spirit.  As  spring  passed  and  summer  ripened  the  fruit  in 
the  old  orchard,  Philip  persisted  in  his  wooing;  and  Aunt 


SPRING  101 

Abigail  and  that  eternal  "tamp,  tamp,"  finally  tortured  the 
girl  into  an  apathetic  consent.  When  August  came  and  the 
harvest  moon,  Ned  Bowlby,  the  whistling  printer,  set  up 
his  copy  that  ran  somewhat  in  this  wise: 

"Captain  Hiram  Fell  requests  the  honour  of  your 
presence,"  and  so  on  down  through  the  old  formula. 

Sally  refused  even  to  look  at  the  proof.  What  mattered  a 
little  letter  or  a  misplaced  comma  when  the  whole  universe 
was  turned  upside  down ! 

All  her  blurred  eyes  caught  were  two  fatal  words,  looming 
ominously  large  and  black  on  the  clay-hued  sheet 

"September  sixth." 


CHAPTER    XIII 
CARLOTTA  SEES   RED 

STANDISH'S  was  the  sort  of  place  which  the  world  sees 
nightly  in  the  films — discounting  their  arch  magnificence,  of 
course,  and  leaving  as  net,  something  showy,  noisy,  and  crass. 
Now  ordinarily,  where  men  and  women,  wine,  gold,  and 
the  passions  foregather,  it  is  reasonable  to  expect  romance, 
colour,  if  only  the  much  admired  hues  of  the  Flowers  of  Evil. 
But  here  even  such  resplendent  blooms  are  choked  by  the 
bindweed  Greed.  Baudelaire  has  given  way  to  Irving 
Berlin.  The  revels  are  but  so  many  transactions.  And  the 
"atmosphere"  has  as  much  of  the  real  quality  as  a  theatre 
air-cooler  matched  with  the  ocean's  breath. 

Everybody  is  out  on  the  make,  each  trying  to  extract 
something,  in  cash  or  sensation,  from  his  neighbour, — waiter 
from  customer,  head-waiter  from  underling,  guest  from 
host,  and  host  from  guest — man  from  woman,  and  woman 
from  man.  Now,  on  occasion  at  least,  Montmartre  can  make 
of  merriment  an  art.  One  may  be  a  spendthrift  yet  even 
through  Frailty's  rent  robe  show  something  of  the 
reprehensible  but  splendidly  natural.  Here  the  hand  instead 
of  flinging  away  with  a  careless  grace,  even  as  it  spends  is 
outstretched  to  seize.  The  quarry,  not  the  moment's  fleeting 

1 02 


CARLOTTA  SEES  RED  103 

joy  but  the  hard  quid  pro  quo.  No  blithe  laughter,  gay 
grotesquerie,  or  real  roses — only  crinkled  things  of  paper 
crepe,  the  aroma  of  talcum,  steam,  and  sweat,  compounded ; 
and  the  prevailing  colour  the  sickly  gilt — the  sort  that  encrusts 
a  radiator. 

But  one  would  be  sadly  lacking  in  humour  to  grow 
sententious  over  Standish's  or  to  consider  it  worth  an  indict 
ment.  Besides,  it  served  as  an  excellent  background  for  the 
star's  robustious  dancing,  a  humour  as  galeful  as  the  winds 
that  snap  around  the  Flatiron,  and  an  impudence,  at  times 
disconcerting,  at  others  well-nigh  fetching.  But  so  much  for 
that. 

On  this  evening  of  the  fifth  of  September,  Carlotta,  the 
"divine  Carlotta,"  she  who,  according  to  Abey  Clout's  four- 
sheet  lyric,  had  performed  a  most  extraordinary  service  for 
the  world,  nothing  less  than  "putting  the  sin  in  ^iw-copation," 
made  the  last  assault  and  charge  with  her  lithe  hips,  and 
fled  the  white  hoop  of  the  calcium  for  her  dressing- 
room. 

Her  metamorphosis  from  the  little  Yiddish  tomboy  who 
had  danced  and  fought  and  bit  her  way  up  from  Stanton 
Street,  into  the  most  approved  type  of  showgirl,  shoulder- 
and  hip-sway,  slang  and  all,  had  been  little  short  of  amaz 
ing.  It  was  paralleled  only  by  her  brother  Izzy's  sloughing 
off  of  the  old  physical  timidity  of  the  Jew,  and  his  debut 
as  Joey  McGann,  "the  Fightin'  Harp,"  at  the  Harlem  A.  C. 
Both  created  sensations  when  they  came  back  to  Stanton 
Street  (by  the  L  as  far  as  Grand,  thence,  for  effect,  by  taxi). 
But  for  all  this  innocent  show,  they  were  together  keeping 


104  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

the  fat,  girdleless  "Momma"  and  her  living  stairway,  now 
increased  to  nine  little  steps,  from  collapse. 

As  for  other  spending  on  the  part  of  either,  there  was 
little  save  for  board  and  keep — and  not  so  much  of  that, 
it  being  one  of  the  chiefest  of  the  arts  of  both  ring  and 
cabaret  entertainers  to  escape  such  expense. 

This  evening,  before  changing  her  costume,  Carlotta 
reached  for  a  newspaper  which  lay  on  her  dresser,  not  her 
favourite  daily  but  the  Sdthaven  Log.  She  was  probably 
the  most  remote,  certainly  the  most  incongruous,  of  its  sub 
scribers.  Among  the  gilt  bottles  and  makeup  boxes  the  pale 
old  English  caption  of  the  sheet  stood  out  like  some  bulletin 
from  Eden  in  a  boudoir  of  Babylon,  as  anachronistic  as  Car- 
lotta's  vivid  person  would  have  been  on  the  Salthaven  sands. 

That  the  little  world  whose  revolutions  it  recorded  was 
real,  Carlotta  knew  because  it  sheltered  a  being  on  whom 
she  had  actually  laid  hands.  Its  existence  was  of  course  a 
rule-proving  exception,  since  the  tangible  universe  was 
bounded  by  three  rivers,  the  North,  the  East,  and  the 
Harlem,  and  one  bay;  with  Newark,  Paterson,  and  Stamford 
somewhere  vaguely  out  there  as  the  outposts  of  civilization, 
sort  of  baby-farms  for  newly-born  plays.  Rural  hamlet, 
Western  plain,  and  lofty  Alp,  all  were  figments  of  the 
imagination,  "sets"  for  revues,  made  out  of  whole  cloth  for 
box-office  purposes  and  the  livelihood  of  stage  folk  like 
herself.  The  very  stars  she  had  glimpsed  once  or  twice  in 
her  life,  could  one  capture  them,  would  be  sure  to  turn  out 
five-pointed  things  of  tinsel,  stuck  up  there  by  Jake  Shubert, 
Flo  Ziegfeld,  or  some  of  the  gods  that  be.  If  Jake  said 


CARLOTTA  SEES  RED  105 

"Lights,"  there  would  be  light,  otherwise  the  world  would 
gnash  its  teeth  in  outer  darkness. 

Even  had  she  travelled — ay,  as  long  and  as  far  as  her 
charming  compatriot,  "the  Wandering  Jew,"  she  would  have 
recognized  as  existent  only  those  things  she  could  touch  or 
feel,  or  that  contributed  to  her  well-being  or  purse.  The 
sea,  when  it  wasn't  a  salon  for  the  display  of  bathing  cos 
tumes,  was  something  back  of  Filet  of  Sole,  perhaps  also 
of  its  Tartar  sauce.  Paris  was  the  source  of  Mary  Garden 
perfume,  the  slashed  skirt,  and — marvellous  perspicacity 
here — one  intangible  thing — that  chic  which  she  called 
"class." 

Altogether  it  was  surprising  that  her  superb  matter-of- 
factness  was  disturbed  by  that  prophecy  of  the  Pell  Street 
medium, — "a  long  journey" — but  even  Achilles  had  his  com 
pounding  weakness.  The  solid  ore  of  her  practicality  was 
shot  through  with  veins  of  superstition,  as  near  imagination's 
gold  as  she  could  show. 

A  violent  reaction  was  produced  by  the  idyllic  headline 
which  announced  the  "Huntington  Nuptials."  Now  usually 
her  displays  of  temperament  were  for  effect,  to  please  her 
vanity,  or  for  shrewd  professional  purpose.  One  had  some 
times  the  suspicion  that  this  temper  of  hers  was  not  so  very 
dreadful,  after  all,  but  rather  humorous  and  practical,  a  crude 
hose  and  hydrant  sort  of  thing,  to  be  turned  at  will,  off, 
or  on  for  the  bowling  over  of  weak  victims.  However,  on 
this  occasion  the  outburst  was  probably  more  natural. 

She  ripped  the  paper  in  two,  back-kicked  the  gilt  chair 
until  its  frail  underpinning  buckled,  and  hurled  a  bottle  of 


io6  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

laboratory  beauty  at  the  wardrobe  woman  whom  she  had  ap 
propriated  as  her  maid,  to  the  fury  of  her  sisters  on  the 
bill,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room.  A  youth  with  a  dinnercoat, 
a  plump  purse,  and  an  isosceles  profile,  lounged  against  the 
door,  awaiting  an  engagement  with  her,  which  he  imagined 
to  be  "social,"  she  "strictly  business."  She  breezed  past 
him  with  a  "Fade  away,  fade  away,  Milt,"  whose  forceful 
insolence  vastly  chagrined  him,  but  which  to  an  impersonal 
spectator  would  have  been  most  engaging,  even  captivating. 
Then  she  ordered  the  majestic  negro  under  the  canopy  to 
order  a  taxi,  not  a  too  common  vehicle  in  that  year. 

One  drew  up  at  the  curb.  She  entered  and  under  her 
directions,  most  explicit  and  clean-cut — though  a  trifle  impure 
— the  driver  cut  across  Broadway,  down  Forty-ninth  Street, 
and  through  Sixth  Avenue,  imperiling  pedestrians,  and 
skidding  across  the  rain-glimmering  asphalt  in  a  succession 
of  "sashays"  that  reminded  one  of  her  own  on  the  polished 
floor,  a  little  earlier  in  the  evening. 

The  jolly  voyage  came  to  an  end  on  Forty- fourth  Street. 
After  a  lively  little  dispute  over  the  fare,  she  approached  the 
house,  a  famous  brownstone  front,  and  gave  the  cryptic 
signal  at  the  grilled  doors.  Before  her  flaming  imperiousness 
the  doorkeeper  blinked  and  backed  a  step,  then  perforce 
waived  his  orders  not  to  admit  women.  Convention  and  tra 
dition  did  not  restrain  her  any  more  than  the  doorkeeper — 
they  were  ever  the  least  of  her  worries.  In  fact  Carlotta  had 
no  inhibitions  whatever,  even  about  pork  and  the  passover. 
Were  she  in  need  of  a  person,  and  were  that  particular  per 
son  at  the  moment  in  a  Turkish  bath — men's  day  only — she 


CARLOTTA  SEES  RED  107 

would  have  instantly  traversed  every  nook  and  corner  of 
the  place  with  a  most  admirable  sang  froid.  "I  should 
worry,"  was  the  device  of  her  escutcheon — and,  believe  us, 
she  held  it  high ! 

So  up  the  stairs  she  raced,  and  into  a  room,  spacious,  bril 
liant  with  lights,  crystal  chandeliers,  and  the  massive  gilt 
frames  of  famous  landscapes,  as  film  and  story  have  so  often 
shown  us — too  often,  it  is  to  be  feared,  to  the  dispelling  of 
the  fascinating  mystery. 

This  much  censoring,  however,  must  be  made,  to  be  ac 
curate  and  faithful, — the  films'  universality  of  clawhammers 
must  be  reduced  by  a  few  sacksuits,  at  least,  and  the  desper 
ate  and  Satanic  look  rubbed  from  the  faces  of  the  real  win 
ners — who  happened  to  know  the  numbers  of  both  straight 
and  crooked  wheels — and  an  expression  somewhat  plainer 
and  less  alarming  substituted. 

However,  against  this  now  trite  and  commonplace  back 
ground  two  figures  stood  out  in  bold  and  original  relief. 
One,  of  course,  was  the  raging  beauty  who  loomed  in  the 
doorway,  her  un-removed  makeup  under  the  bobbed  mane 
and  heavily  pencilled  eyes  seeming  more  garish  than  ever; 
her  eyelashes  twisted  by  some  ultra-modern  process  into  dark 
star  rays ;  and  the  crimson  cape  trailing  over  one  shoulder 
to  reveal  a  plump — and — unless  you  prefer  the  slender — a 
pleasing  decollete,  swathed  in  a  gleaming  cuirass  of  gilt 
scales.  Altogether  a  typical  rig,  for  when  one  remembers 
Carlotta — person,  props,  or  appointments — it  is  always  in 
primary  colours,  never  in  subtler  hues. 

Now  of  late,  Carlotta  had  entered  another  stage  of  her 


io8 

rise  to  Fame.  She  had  been  modelling  herself  after  a  much 
advertised  tragedy  queen.  So  at  the  door  she  paused  to 
slip  the  melody  of  her  gait  into  the  upper  register,  and.  quite 
as  that  lady  would  have  towered  upon  such  a  scene,  entered 
the  room,  to  confront  the  other  outstanding  figure,  her  guide 
and  mentor,  MacAllister. 

To  vary  the  dry  routine  of  poker,  faro,  baccarat,  and 
roulette,  he  was  reviving  that  old  favourite,  "three  card 
Monte."  It  was  a  joy,  though  perhaps  a  doubtful  and 
dangerous  one,  to  watch  him.  The  young  bloods  from  the 
Avenue,  or  Sheridan  Road,  seemed  quite  willing  to  serve  as 
victims  on  such  an  altar,  as  men  with  a  sense  of  the  artistic 
are  willing  to  be  hoaxed,  even  mulcted,  provided  the  hoaxing 
or  mulcting  be  not  stupidly  but  deftly  done. 

Even  Carlotta's  rage  diminuendoed  into  soft  admiration 
as  she  gazed  at  those  fingers,  ever  the  first  thing  you  noticed 
about  him,  long  and  white,  not  tapering  but  as  slender  at 
their  base  as  at  their  well-manicured  tips.  It  was  almost 
like  studying  a  virtuoso  at  the  piano,  his  figure  carrying  out 
the  illusion,  so  sharply  contrasted  it  was,  like  the  keys,  in 
blacks  and  whites.  Each  flick  of  the  deal  wras  a  grace  note, 
every  shuffle  of  the  deck  a  finished  chromatic  scale. 

He  had  seen  Carlotta,  of  course — no  one  could  have  missed 
that  dramatic  entrance,  but  it  suited  him  to  ignore  the  tattoo 
of  her  bronzed  slipper.  After  a  few  moments  he  summoned 
a  substitute,  and  signing  to  her,  withdrew  into  a  bay  window. 

In  this  century  of  the  rough  metaphor,  an  interpreter  of 
the  quaint  dialogue  that  followed  is  scarcely  necessary.  He 
first  inquired  "the  occasion,"  "the  motif,"  of  her  visit.  And 


CARLOTTA  SEES  RED  109 

she,  distrusting  the  rounded  periods  and  the  pulpit  high- 
falutin,  which  he  adopted  because  it  annoyed  her,  tartly  re 
quested  him  to  "cut  out  the  skypilot  stuff."  Then  she 
condescended  to  explain  the  "occasion." 

"That  simp  Huntington"  (hitherto  she  had  called  the  boy 
— with  some  show  of  affection — "the  Kid")  "was  to  be 
married."  And could  he  beat  it? 

MacAllister  didn't  say  as  to  that,  but  descending  from  his 
tantalizing  toploftical  plane,  inquired  in  her  own  dialect, 
"just  what  that  meant  in  her  sweet,  young  life?" 

Here  the  bronzed  slipper  paused  for  reflection — jealousy, 
that  was  the  system.  MacAllister  was  her  guide,  her  mentor, 
and  chief.  Not  that  his  code  was  hers,  hopskotch,  synco 
pated  sort  of  thing  though  hers  was,  but  she  admired  him, 
was  dominated  by  him.  Still  he  was  a  male  and,  though  he 
were  Napoleon  himself,  should  have  been  subject  to  those 
reactions  (to  the  feminine)  which  it  was  a  girl's  best  strategy, 
her  surest  source  of  revenue,  to  play  upon.  But  not  realiz 
ing  that  MacAllister  was  immune  to  her  charms,  she  tried 
to  shower  their  opulence  upon  him.  The  soft,  generously- 
moulded  arm  fell  on  his  with  what  she  meant  to  be  the 
lightest  of  caresses,  the  rayed  eyelashes  languishing. 

But  neither  cuteness,  pertness,  nor  languor,  suited  her 
Amazonian  outlay,  and  MacAllister,  with  unerring  taste,  saw 
that  this  manoeuvre  did  not  at  all  become  her.  He  picked  up 
her  arm,  replaced  it  at  her  side,  then  flicked  the  residuum  of 
talcum  from  his  sleeve,  with  the  rude  request,  addressed  to 
her  as  "Frail  Lily  of  the  Vale,"  that  she  "deposit  her  pollen — 
on  some  other  flower." 


no  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

However,  the  rayed  eyelashes  didn't  wither,  merely  becom 
ing  so  many  adders'  tongues  once  more. 

"For  Gawd's  sake,  Mac,  don't  be  so  cold !  D'y'  want  me 
to  tellya  something?  Well,  when  you  cash  in,  the  undertaker 
won't  need  no  ice  t'  keep  yuh  from  corruption" — she  searched 
for  an  even  more  exquisite  figure —  "But  you  should  worry. 
You'll  never  melt  in  my  snowy  bosom.  I  ain't  a-waistin'  my 
tender  caresses  on  no  iceberg !  So,  put  that  in  your  pipe  an' 
smoke  it!" 

"So,  little  ewelamb,  you've  seen  the  light  at  last,"  he 
drawled,  then  mused  for  a  second. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  threw  out. 

Not  that  he  didn't  know,  but  it  was  always  his  way  to  let 
the  other  make  the  suggestion.  It  flattered  the  tool,  and, 
in  heavier  transactions,  transferred  the  burden  of  the  guilt. 

She  rose  to  it. 

"Old  man's  got  money,"  she  growled  out  surlily. 

Now  this  attitude  was  surprising  in  Carlotta,  after  her 
care  of  the  lamb  she  might  have  shorn  long  ere  this,  and  it 
seemed  to  pain  MacAllister — at  least  his  eyes  were  expressing 
an  infinite  pathos. 

"Carlotta" — he  groaned  and  the  voice  matched  his  eyes — 
"you've  committed  a  crime !" 

Involuntarily  she  jerked  her  head  over  her  shoulder,  the 
black  mane  snapping  like  a  tangle  of  whips  in  the  wind. 

"What  d'y'  mean — crime?"  she  shot  out  in  alarm,  fast 
forgetting  the  queen  of  tragedy. Not  that  she  was  con 
scious  of  anything  capital,  but  when  one  trained  with  Mac 
Allister,  one  felt  such  possibilities  to  be  probabilities. 


CARLOTTA  SEES  RED  in 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I  thought  your  love  for  the  charm 
ing  boy"  (aside — "damn  his  fool  hide — ")  "was  pure  and 
without  alloy.  You've  destroyed  an  illusion,  a  beautiful 
illusion — that's  what  you've  done — and  by  all  that's  holy  and 
sacred,  'tis  murder  in  the  nth  degree !" 

"It  was  somethin'  like  what  you  say  it  is — without  the 
grenadine,  Mister  Experience,"  (referring  to  a  morality  play 
popular  that  year)  "  'tleast  it  was  until  he  giv'  me  the  razz,' 
and  no  rube  can  give  me  the  razz'  an'  get  away  with  it" — 
She  crooked  back  a  full  arm,  toyed  with  her  hair — the 
gesture  models  use  to  display  the  grace  of  a  gown,  then 
finished, — "Huh,  me  that  could  have  anything  on  Broadway !" 

He  qualified  the  claim  with  some  sarcasm,  then  reflected 
a  while. 

Without  question  the  mooted  enterprise  was  crude,  "old 
stuff,"  altogether  unworthy  of  his  talents.  But  he  was  in 
straits.  Things  hadn't  broken  well  at  all  for  him  lately. 
And  the  trip  might  prove  diverting,  satisfying  his  love  of 
humour,  local  colour,  and  cash,  at  the  expense  of  the  provin 
cials.  Besides  there  was  a  raised  check  due  to  reach  the 
clearing  house  in  the  morning.  And  he  wasn't  so  sure 
about  that  check. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  wondered  if  his  hand  had 
lost  its  cunning.  Ordinarily  he  was  as  skilful  with  pothooks 
as  with  concealed  aces.  His  cheirography  had  the  hair- 
trigger  nicety  of  his  "stacking,"  or — so  rumour  had  it — his 
ability  to  locate  the  mortal  spot  with  a  bullet,  the  proper 
crevice  between  enemy  ribs  with  cold  steel. 

He  hated  bungling  even  in  little  things ;  never  had  to  strike 


H2  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

a  match  twice ;  never  tied  a  shoelace — or  a  strangling  knot — 
so  that  it  came  undone.  He  hadn't  outlined  the  form  of  the 
circus  lady  on  a  board  with  sharp  knives  twice  a  day,  six 
months  running,  for  nothing.  What  was  the  matter?  Get 
ting  a  case  of  nerves — or  Scotch.  Last  night  the  drinks  had 
outrun  his  usual  cautious  ration. 

That  check !  Again  the  signature  looped  and  coiled  across 

his  fancy  like  a  reptile  across  a  virgin  sheet. And  for  once 

the  debonair  MacAllister  was  experiencing  remorse — though 
of  a  very  practical  sort.  His  whole  life  had  been  foreshad 
owed,  summed  up,  in  that  short  semester  at  the  Seminary, 
where  he  had  spent  enough  time  in  devising  ingenious 
schemes  for  "cribbing"  to  stand  at  the  head  of  his  class,  had 
the  hours  been  given  to  real  study.  But  the  quickening  of 
conscience — or  of  the  canny  instinct  which  served  him  in 
lieu  of  that — was  not  registered  on  his  imperturbable  fea 
tures.  MacAllister  might  be  hunted,  but  he  never  would 
wear  a  hunted  look.  And  tomorrow  was  another  day ! 

Immediately  he  struck  another  note,  one  which  alarmed 
Carlotta,  part  banter  though  it  may  have  been. 

"Suppose  we  take  real  estate  instead  of  cash?" 

"Real  estate!"  she  shot  back,  "what  d'y'  mean?  Live  in 
that  burg  ?  Oh,  Mac,  have  a  heart !" 

"No — sentence  suspended — I  just  happened  to  remember 
that  the  old  man  had  a  yacht." 

"Say!"  She  retorted,  "what  kind  of  a  dirty  deed  d'y' 
think  this  is?  Contrac's  all  drawn  up  by  a  not'ry  an' 
everythin'?  Fat  chance  you  got  of  bein'  handed  a  steam 
yacht!"  But  she  paused  for  reflection — of  course,  he  was 


CARLOTTA  SEES  RED  113 

"kidding,"  but  after  all  he  was  capable  of  putting  a  legal  face 
even  on  an  illegal  transaction — capable,  too,  of  the  wildest 

of  "parties" — what  did  he  have  on  his  mind? "Yacht — 

yacht," she  shuddered — the  voice  of  the  medium  again! 

Almost  in  a  panic,  she  implored  him 

"For  Gawd's  sake,  yuh  ain't  a-goin'  to  take  me  on  no  long 


journey 


"Sea  air  would  restore  those  roses,"  and  rashly  he  pinched 
her  cheeks,  to  the  rude  incarnadining  of  his  fingers. 

"Out  damned  spot,"  he  mimicked,  soaring  again,  "not  all 
the  perfumes  of  Araby " 

"Mac,  yuh  make  me  sick,  this  is  serious,  an'  the  trains 
don't  run  all  night.  If  we're  goin'  to  stage  any  little  stop- 
'em-at-the-altar  game,  we  gotta  get  busy.  But  no  shopliftin' 
any  steam  yachts  for  mine,  d'y'  understand?  I'm  not  built 
for  deep  water,  an'  I'd  a  sight  rather  skin  live  lobsters  on 
Broadway  than  look  at  'em  in  their  nacheral  joints." 

"Well,  we'll  cross  the  bridge  when  we  hit  the  coulee.  As 
for  the  trains,  I  haven't  overlooked  any  bets.  There's  a 
twelve  thirty  sleeper  to  Boston.  Taxi  home  with  your  usual 
speed,  pack  and  dress  with  more  than  your  usual,  and  board 
her  at  a  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street." 

The  bobbed  mane,  the  rose  cape  and  the  cuirass  left  the 
room. 

The  railroad  schedule  and  their  own  movements  dovetailed 
to  a  nicety,  and  at  ten  next  morning  they  alighted  at  the 
Salthaven  station.  Here  they  parted,  he  repairing  by  un 
frequented  side  streets  to  the  Veldmann  shack,  she  to  the 
Preble  House. 


114  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Now  all  the  way  up  on  the  New  Haven,  Carlotta  might 
have  been  adding  to  her  limited  geographical  knowledge,  but, 
with  a  tenacity,  conscious  or  unconscious,  she  retained  all  her 
old  backgrounds  and  attitudes.  And  when  she  took  the  pen 
from  its  slip  of  potato  and  signed  her  name  on  the  register, 
she  felt  the  reward  of  superior  virtue.  Here,  in  spite  of  un 
familiar  surroundings,  she  was  in  a  homelike  atmosphere. 
For,  as  the  yokel  who  combined  the  duties  of  bellboy,  boot 
black,  and  bus,  led  her  up  the  stairs,  a  score  of  necks 
turned  like  marionettes  pulled  by  a  common  string.  Here 
were  reactions  and  motivatings  which  she  could  understand. 
They  were  universal.  Nether  limbs  were  as  compelling  in 
Arcadia  as  in  Cosmopolis.  Even  the  comments,  the 
dozen  repetitions  of  the  standard  slogan  of  the  day, — 
"Oh,  you  kiddo,"  all  ejaculated  in  a  nasal  staccato  into 
which  she  had  excited  their  usual  drawl,  testified  to  her 
usual  triumph. 

Perversely  she  didn't  accommodate  them  with  the  back-kick 
she  knew  they  expected.  Instead,  as  she  turned  the  baluster, 
she  essayed  the  best  exit  of  her  idolized  tragedy  queen. 

Her  superiority,  the  maintenance  of  her  standards,  had 
been  justified.  Had  she  not  always  stood,  loyally  "from 
Missouri,"  in  all  disputes  in  plays,  books,  or  conversations, 
where  the  higher  morality  of  Arcady  had  been  argued? 

And  now  not  only  in  matters  spiritual  but  in  those  material, 
was  her  philosophy  shown  to  be  sound.  Proof  indeed  in 
the  bedroom*s  lack  of  plumbing,  the  musty  bed  and  carpet, 
the  cracked  pitcher  over  whose  midnight  interior  a  spider 
hung  suspended! 


CARLOTTA  SEES  RED  115 

"Of  all  the  jay  towns !"  she  exclaimed.  "Modern  improve 
ments,  huh!" 

The  claims  of  Broadway,  even  of  Harlem,  she'd  back 
against  Preble  Street — against  the  world ! 

Then  she  caught  sight  of  the  bay  and  far-off  masts,  some 
of  them  dropping  below  the  verge,  and  hurling  her  vanity 
case  across  the  room,  cried : 

"To  Hell  with  that  long  journey  !" 

Still  she  felt  a  grim  foreboding,  as  if  that  grim  defiance 
hadn't  quite  settled  it. 

Recovering  her  spirits  a  little  later,  she  arrayed  herself 
in  what  she  considered  her  most  fashionable  dress, — a  smash 
ing  thing  woven  of  flame  and  snow,  with  a  toque  of  swan's 
wings  concealing  her  black  hair,  and  so,  like  some  bright 
flamingo,  sought  the  Huntington  home. 

Arrived  at  her  goal,  she  surveyed  it  critically,  caustically. 

"So  there's  flowers  an'  trees  an'  everythin'.  An'  apples 
hangin'  on  'em — the  scene-painters  wasn't  lyin'  after  all." 
She  raised  an  imaginary  lorgnette  in  haughty  showgirl  fash 
ion,  "Chawming  place — reminds  me  of — the  morchuary  on 
Twenty-third  Street.  I  wonder  if  the  Squire  an'  Lord 
Percy  are  to  hum." 

The  latter,  the  former  informed  her,  was  out.  The  very 
door  was  banged  in  her  face,  sending  her  rage  a  degree  or 
two  higher.  However,  she  decided  that  she  would  postpone 
the  fireworks.  They  could  come  later — at  the,  what  was  it 
Abie  Clout  said,  oh  yes,  in  the  physiological  (  !)  moment.  So 
she  flounced  down  the  walk,  and  sat  on  the  bench  for  a  half- 
hour  or  so,  commenting  with  forceful  irony  on  the  charm  of 


n6  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

the  scene  before  her.  Meanwhile,  from  the  parlour  window, 
the  old  gentleman,  in  a  vague  alarm  that  would  have  been 
humorous  if  it  hadn't  been  a  bit  pathetic,  gazed  at  the  vivid 
flamingo  that  had  come  to  brood  on  his  lawn,  perhaps  even 
to  nest  in  his  house. 

"H'mmm !"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "some  of  Phil's  chick 
ens  come  home  to  roost — I  wonder  !" 

Nor  was  he  borrowing  one  of  Carlotta's  figures,  either, 
though  you  might  have  thought  so,  for  she  had  the  way  of 
setting  the  most  sedate  to  her  own  tricks, — their  bodies  to 
twitching  and  swaying,  their  tongues  to  queerest  conversa 
tional  turns. 

Growing  impatient,  she  returned  to  the  hotel  and  tried  the 
boothless  telephone, to  the  delight  of  the  lobby  loungers,  who 
had  gotten  past  the  salacity  stage  of  their  curiosity  and  were 
now  merely  enjoying  the  humour  of  the  situation.  As  for 
her,  she  cared  not  that  they  heard.  Those  Huntingtons  were 
going  to  get  all  the  publicity  they  needed.  Her  charge  and 
fee  would  come  later. 

"Hello,  Phil  dear,  this  is  Carlotta" — then,  hearing  his 
voice,  her  own  unconsciously  softened,  though  it  could  never 
exactly  achieve  a  pianissimo.  "Ole  guy's  in  the  room," 
she  muttered,  as  she  heard  the  irrelevant  answer : 

"Yes,  see  that  there's  plenty  of  gasoline  in  the  tank,  and 
bring  her  around  at  six-thirty  sharp." 

At  the  other  end  of  the  wire,  the  elder  Huntington's  sus 
picions  reared  their  ghastly  heads  once  more.  From  where 
he  sat  he  could  hear  the  faint  echo  of  a  throaty  contralto 
from  the  instrument,  and  it  didn't  sound  at  all  like  the  gruff 


CARLOTTA  SEES  RED  117 

bass  of  Gus  Peters,  that  hardy  pioneer  who  had  turned  a 
wing  of  his  livery  stable  into  the  first  garage  of  the  town. 
But  he  kept  his  counsel — the  boy  would  be  out  of  harm's 
way  soon. 

Still,  as  she  flung  herself  like  a  full-fed  panther  on  the  bed 
in  her  hotel  room,  Carlotta  was  rather  pleased  with  herself, 
that  is  as  long  as  she  could  shut  out  that  warning  prophecy 
which  sometimes  threatened  to  become  an  obsession.  Her 
heartache  was  lost  in  the  sense  of  the  dramatic,  in  her  de 
lighted  approval  of  the  makeup  of  the  loungers  in  the  hotel, 
small-part  people  in  the  production  she  was  staging.  The 
situation  held  sufficient  of  both  tragedy  and  farce  to  satisfy 
the  most  jaded  appetite,  and  there  was  promised  a  most 
astonishing  denouement  and  curtain,  that  night.  On  this  she 
was  determined.  She  would  ring  it  down  herself  if 
necessary. 

She  was  not  sensing  the  loveliness  of  the  quiet  gardens  be 
hind  the  houses  on  the  street,  the  sweet  old  people  that  worked 
or  drowsed  in  them,  the  green  roofs  of  the  trees  lining  the 
street,  and  the  irregular  angles  of  the  housetops  sloping  down 
to  the  sea.  That  she  refused  even  to  look  at. 

This  scene  was  just  what  Sally  was  gazing  at  so  mourn 
fully,  a  bare  half  mile  away.  Now  if  she  had  met  Carlotta, 
she  never  could  have  understood  this  distressing  slant  at  the 
place  and  people  she  herself  loved  so  well.  Not  that  Carlotta 
was  exactly  a  viper,  to  transform  this  Eden  into  an  inferno. 
MacAllister  might  qualify  for  such  a  role — not  she.  But 
wherever  Carlotta  went,  she  could,  and  did,  manage  to  add  a 
touch  of  burlesque.  Very  swiftly  she  could  turn  an  exquisite 


n8  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

idyll  into  a  roaring  farce.  Had  she  herself  realized  to  the 
full  this  faculty,  Carlotta  would  have  been  highly  delighted. 
Next  to  finding  "a  meal-ticket,"  she  enjoyed  nothing  so  much 
as  "queering  things,"  "crabbing  anyone's  act."  It  would  have 
pleased  her  rarely  to  know  that  she  had  given  this  grotesque 
touch  to  so  lovely  a  setting,  and  so  threatened  even  the  so 
lemnities  that  were  to  be  celebrated  that  evening.  To  Sally 
the  former  distortion  would  have  been  the  sacrilege,  the  latter 
wouldn't  have  mattered  much — it  was  farce  enough  already. 

In  a  dull  apathy  she  turned  from  the  window  and  tried 
to  interest  herself  in  the  preparations  for  the  reception  to 
follow  the  ceremony, — the  final  dusting  of  bric-a-brac,  the 
making  of  salads  and  sandwiches.  There  was  this  much  of 
consolation, — her  Aunt  Abigail  had  laid  aside  her  soul's  stays 
and  whalebones,  and,  thinking  more  of  satin  and  chiffons 
and  her  social  prominence  of  the  evening,  was  all  smiles  and 
approval,  for  once. 

As  she  passed  to  and  fro  in  the  kitchen,  the  girl  noticed 
on  the  windowsill  the  big  blue  bowl  that  had  once  held  the 
magic  golden  flood.  And  the  dream  came  back — the  shining 
islands,  floating,  beckoning,  vanishing,  on  the  sun-smitten 
sea.  But  they  had  indeed  slipped  over  its  blue  rim. 

The  dream  had  vanished  with  them.  The  blue  bowl  held 
no  magic  now,  only  a  pool  of  yeast  and  potato  sponge,  which 
Aunt  Abigail  had  not  forgotten  even  in  the  importance  of  the 
night's  event — a  mess,  not  golden  at  all,  but  dreary  and  grey. 
And  so  forever  would  be  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
ENTER  SPANISH   DICK 

AT  seven  of  this  same  morning,  the  sun  was  shining  quite 
as  brightly — far  more  brightly,  Sally  would  have  declared — on 
a  beach  a  few  hundred  miles  to  the  southwest  of  Salthaven, 
where,  not  far  from  the  inlet,  stands  the  Barnabee  Light,  one 
of  the  most  ancient  on  the  Jersey  shore,  or,  in  fact,  on  the 
whole  Atlantic  coast.  The  life  saving  station  here  estab 
lished  had  the  honour,  a  generation  back,  of  trying  the  first 
breeches  buoy,  with  considerable  success,  losing  not  a  life 
from  the  wreck.  This  reputation  they  and  their  successors 
guarded  zealously,  and  now  in  the  early  morning  light,  they 
were  inspecting  the  tackle  of  the  ugly  device  that  had  brought 
them  so  much  fame. 

But  today  a  strange  and  new  figure,  unenlisted  and  unin 
vited,  was  assisting  in  the  inspection.  Rather  roughly  ordered 
to  stand  off,  he  watched  them  for  a  while,  grinning  good- 
naturedly  at  their  chaffing,  then  wearily  sat  him  down  on 
the  sands,  and  untied  a  knotted  bandana.  From  its  gay  folds 
he  produced  a  frugal  repast,  appearing  quite  hurt  that  none 
of  the  guards  who  had  just  seemed  so  friendly  would  share 
in  it.  However,  his  moods  being  as  variable  as  the  waves  or 
the  sunbeams  that  played  on  them,  he  soon  forgot  this  slight 

119 


120  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

to  his  sacred  hospitality,  and,  between  mouthfuls,  started  a 
song,  quaint  and  very  old,  the  sort  that  can  come  only  from 
the  sea.  For  tattered  and  torn  and  weather-beaten  this 
wanderer  might  be,  but  never,  even  at  the  lowest  ebb  of  his 
fortunes,  anything  but  cheerful,  highly  diverting,  and  pictur 
esque.  These  fortunes  were  about  at  their  neap  tide  now. 
Three  days  before  he  had  been  paid  oft  in  Philadelphia  where 
his  ship  had  docked ;  had  been  robbed  of  that  total  ten  minutes 
later;  then,  seized  by  some  inexplicable  wanderlust,  had 
crossed  the  ferry  to  Camden  and  footed  it  through  the  sands 
and  pines  of  south  Jersey,  only  to  land  again  on  the  shore, 
with  the  fourth  sun-up. 

The  song  over,  he  doffed  his  stiff  brogans ;  rolled  up  to  his 
knees  a  pair  of  trousers  which  had  been  stained  by  many 
waters  to  a  characterless  green ;  and  plunged  his  feet  in  the 
sands.  That  he  had  two  garments  was  obvious — the  posses 
sion  of  more  was  extremely  doubtful.  This  second,  a  denim 
shirt,  matched  the  nether  one  in  nondescript  hue,  opening  to 
reveal  a  neck  as  brown  and  hairy  as  his  shanks,  and  adorned 
in  tattoo  with  some  one  of  his  patron  saints.  This  design  was 
intricate  and  must  have  cost  much  time  and  pains,  to  say 
nothing  of  physical  agony,  but  it  was  not  nearly  so  elaborate 
as  the  decorations  on  the  arms  which  were  veritable  totem 
poles  with  their  wealth  of  anchors,  birds  of  paradise,  hearts, 
suns,  moons,  and  stars,  etched  in  vari-coloured  inks. 

A  curling  brown  beard,  circular  brass  earrings,  and  a  red 
and  yellow  handkerchief,  bound  fillet-wise  about  his  fore 
head,  completed  the  picture,  all  framing  the  seamed  and 
leathery  scroll  of  a  face  wherein  one  could  read,  not  the 


ENTER  SPANISH  DICK  121 

wisdom  of  books  but  an  infinitely  wiser  lore.  For  Spanish 
Dick  with  his  mixture  of  Spanish,  Portugee,  Italian,  and  who 
knows  what  Romance  and  even  Romany  bloods,  was  only  in 
part  a  sailor.  A  goodly  slice  of  him  was  gypsy  and  trouba 
dour — but  he  was  wholly  an  irresponsible  love-child  of  the 
sea.  He  could  cook  fairly,  and  reef  a  sail  in  a  storm  with 
some  dispatch.  But  while  he  performed  the  duties  before  the 
mast  with  perhaps  only  sufficient  skill  to  escape  being  thrown 
overboard,  in  other  arts  he  reached  an  almost  miraculous  per 
fection.  He  could  curse  as  ingeniously  as  Old  Man  Veld- 
mann,  but  with  infinitely  less  of  offence  and  more  of  music ; 
spin  a  smacking  good  yarn ;  dance  divinely ;  sing  like  an  angel 
all  the  sailors'  chanteys  that  ever  were  written ;  yes,  and  very 
quickly  lull  to  sleep  a  restless  child.  Sally's  still  have  this 
in  their  memories. 

Even  now  he  was  sharing  his  repast  with  a  little  yellow 
dog  who,  between  whiles,  was  boring  for  fleas,  thumping  his 
sausage  of  a  tail  on  the  sands,  and  looking  up  at  his  master 
with  eyes  quite  as  soft  and  almost  of  the  same  liquid 
brown. 

"Senor  Alfonso,"  the  man  was  saying  to  his  yellow  com 
panion,  as  he  tossed  him  a  bit  of  the  cheese,  "we  always  go 
feefty-feefty,  non?" 

Now  his  language  was  a  linguistic  Joseph's  coat  of  many 
and  quaint  colours,  a  wonderful  mosaic  of  grammatical  and 
ungrammatical  expressions  from  the  Seven  Seas,  in  which, 
as  in  his  veins,  no  one  could  tell  what  strain  predominated, 
no  more  than  they  could  swear  who  was  his  mother,  or  where 
his  father  or  grandfathers  came  from.  But  the  dog  seemed 


122  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

to  understand  him,  and  thumped  his  tail  again  in  an  ecstatic 
affirmative. 

But  the  actual  answer  came  from  another  auditor,  who 
seemed  to  be  resenting  the  inattention  to  his  Worshipful- 
ness. 

"The  Hell  you  say,  the  Hell  you  say !" 

The  charming  commonplace  was  uttered  in  a  raucous  and 
miscreant  voice,  but  one  should  be  charitable  in  judging  the 
speaker,  for  it  suggested  rather  an  unmoral  than  an  immoral 
attitude  towards  life. 

Now  Spanish  Dick  was  a  bit  of  a  ventriloquist,  but  he 
couldn't  have  been  responsible,  for  his  mouth  was  at  the  mo 
ment  gagged  by  a  slice  of  bread  and  cheese  full  two  inches 
thick.  The  real  culprit  swung  in  a  cage  three  feet  to  the 
north  of  him,  the  greenest,  the  most  scarlet,  the  foulest- 
mouthed,  and  the  most  ingenious  parrot  sailor  ever  trained 
in  the  doubtful  Montessori  system  of  the  seas. 

Lady  Parrot  seemed  to  have  a  predilection  for  bromides  of 
the  sulphurous  sort.  She  repeated  her  observation  with  the 
delight  of  an  urchin  who  does  not  altogether  understand  the 
significance  of  an  expression  picked  up  of  an  afternoon,  but 
senses  it,  decidedly  relishing  its  flavour,  and  the  prospect  it 
offers  of  later  shocking  his  elders  at  the  dinner-table. 

For  a  while  she  kept  it  up,  shattering  the  silences  with  her 
uncouth  chatter,  then  the  three  drowsed  on  the  sands,  the 
man  soundly,  the  dog  lazily  and  a  little  on  guard,  but  the  bird 
with  a  pale,  wafer-like  lid,  half -lowered  over  one  smouldering 
eye  like  a  camera  diaphragm,  which,  when  any  came  near, 
opened  in  a  most  vicious  close-up,  accompanied  by  a  shrieked 


ENTER  SPANISH  DICK  123 

blasphemy,  at  which  her  master  but  turned  over  and  snored 
the  more  loudly. 

And  through  all  these  precious  minutes,  a  bottle  was  toss 
ing  on  the  waves,  a  bare  three  hundred  feet  away. 

Roller  after  roller  bore  it  gently,  until  with  the  tide  it 
reached  the  bare  feet  of  the  sleeper,  and  he  awoke. 

Don  Alfonso  nosed  it  playfully,  without  any  comprehen 
sion  of  its  momentous  cargo,  but  Spanish  Dick,  his  curiosity 
aroused,  picked  it  up  and  looked  at  the  little  roll  of  bark  in 
side.  There  seemed  to  be  characters  of  some  sort  on  it, 
undecipherable  through  the  brown  gloom  of  the  glass. 

The  strength  of  his  fingers  could  not  turn  the  improvised 
cork,  so  swollen  was  it,  so  he  called  on  his  clasp-knife,  and 
the  message,  its  long  voyage  over,  was  released  at  last. 
Now,  with  all  his  crazy  patchwork  vocabulary,  the  wanderer 
could  read  but  a  few  words  and  these  in  Spanish,  so  with  a 
childlike  bewilderment  he  turned  the  odd  scroll  this  way  and 
that,  vainly  trying  to  make  it  out,  then  looked  from  left  to 
right  at  his  companions  as  if  asking  for  counsel. 

But  Alfonso,  though  he  looked  volumes  of  intelligence, 
was  quite  inarticulate.  And  Mariuch  the  parrot,  observing 
her  master  scratch  his  head — a  familiar  gesture,  with  him 
expressing  mere  bewilderment,  with  the  dog  a  more  annoy 
ing  disturbance — merely  cocked  one  eye,  and  forcefully  pre 
dicted  that  her  soul  would  be  lost,  a  quite  unnecessary  proph 
ecy  when  that  eye  expressed  so  clearly  the  Tophet  road  she 
had  chosen — very  early  in  her  young  life  it  must  have  been. 
It  is  a  sad  perhaps  cynical  thing  to  record  but  Mariuch  always 
made  one  believe  in  predestination. 


i24  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

So,  not  finding  any  help  from  his  companions,  the  tattered 
figure  rose,  and  looked  up  and  down  the  sands.  The  life 
guards  had  disappeared,  but  over  by  the  creek  a  little  man 
was  jerkily  zigzagging  his  way,  whistling  determinedly  the 
while,  in  staccato  fashion,  as  if  he  had  all  the  time  in  the 
world  but  was  of  too  nervous  an  organization  to  know  what 
to  do  with  it. 

As  he  neared  the  Light,  he  was  hailed  by  a  chorus  of  shrieks 
and  barks,  and  the  quaint  jabberings  of  a  tongue  which  he 
decided,  after  much  speculation,  was  human. 

"Holy  cats !"  said  he,  "did  my  ticket  read  New  Jersey  or 
the  Spanish  Main?" 

The  colourful  figure  was  extending  a  bottle  and  a  piece  of 
bark,  and  saying  something  that  sounded  like: 

"Bona  dias,  senor,  you  reeda  da  Ingleese?" 

Before  the  bottle,  the  newcomer  held  up  his  hands  in  the 
holiest  of  horrors. 

"On  the  wagon,  don't  tempt  me !"  he  wailed,  then,  glancing 
down  at  the  bark, — "No  thanks,  none  of  your  yellow  sheets. 
If  you  see  it  in  the  Star,  it's  so !" 

Now,  Butts  was  a  little  whippersnapper  of  a  reporter,  with 
restless  eyes  constantly  asking  questions,  and  a  glib  tongue 
that  bombarded  his  victims  with  more — in  fact  so  many  that 
he  never  stopped  for  the  answers,  merely  substituting  for 
them  his  own  preconceptions,  which  usually  happened  to  be 
shrewd  enough  to  keep  his  chief  out  of  libel  suits.  He  was 
too  good  a  newspaper  man,  and  too  curious,  to  ignore  a  rival 
sheet,  so  after  all  he  extended  his  hand. 

"Here,  old  top,  let's  see  your  three  star  extra — and  what 


ENTER  SPANISH  DICK  125 

Arthur  Busybrain  an'  Ellawillerwillies  are  getting  off  their 
chests  this  fine  afternoon. 

"  'Shipwrecked  !' '  He  whistled  again.  "  'On  island — 
about  latitude,  eighteen  north' — Where  the  heck  did  you 
get  this  ?" 

"From  the  sea  it  came,  seiior,  in  the  bottle." 

"Your  uncle  Dudley  wasn't  born  yesterday,  so  easy  on  your 
persiflage,  old  Flying  Dutch." 

"Si,  si,  sefior,"  said  the  other  earnestly,  scenting  the  skep 
ticism  though  not  the  expressions  which  conveyed  it,  "from 
the  sea  it  came — in  a  bottle — I  swear  it,  by  all  the 
saints,  Santa  Caterina  de  Sienna,  an'  San  Agnolo  de  Padua, 
an' " 

"Never  mind  your  telephone  directory  of  the  Celestial 
Boulevards — h'mmm"  he  was  reading  it  over — 'long,  six  two 
west,  alive — well — notify  Sally  Fell—  Salthaven' — is  that 
burg  on  the  map?" 

He  searched  his  pockets  which  were  bulging  with  stub 
pencils,  wads  of  clay-coloured  copy  paper,  and  time-tables, 
and  selected  one  of  the  latter. 

"For  the  luv  of  Pete,  if  it  ain't !  But  ye  gods !  it's  a  hoax, 
a  plant,  surest  thing  you  know.  But  what  a  lulu  of  a  Sun 
day  spread  it'd  make — three  running,  too!  Perhaps  it's  a 
hunch,  and  I  never  overlooked  one  yet.  So  goodbye,  vaca 
tion,  and" — here  he  counted  a  rather  slender  roll,  "twenty- 
nine,  thirty,  thirty-one,  tub,  three — "  he  saluted  the  green 
backs  with  his  lips,  then  turning  to  his  new  friend,  shot  at 
him, 

"Are  you  on?" 


126  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  tattered  one  looked  his  bewilderment,  and  Butts  tried 
to  make  things  clear. 

"Are  you  game — to  visit  this  dame  called  Sally  and  re 
store  her  own  troo  love?  It  means  a  little  voyage  on  a  steam 
road — ever  see  one,  Columbus?" 

Seeing  that  the  befuddlement  of  the  stranger  was  utter 
and  complete,  he  tried  pantomime, 

"Railway,  wheels,"  his  hands  revolved — "steam,  savvy? 
Choo  choo — toot,  toot — ah,  for  Ned's  sake,  yuh  stone  wall 
from  the  Alhambra,  come  on !"  and  he  seized  the  old  fellow 
by  the  arm,  and,  like  a  self-important  tug,  hurried  his 
strange  convoy,  man,  dog,  parrot,  cage,  and  bandana  bundle, 
to  the  railway  station. 


CHAPTER  XV 
A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN 

THAT  carefree  and  slightly  patronizing  attitude  towards 
the  universe  in  general  had  forsaken  the  bridegroom.  He 
was  growing  nervous,  even  over  trifles.  Perhaps  the  twin 
bracers  which  he  had  just  taken  were  responsible,  or  his 
rather  real  infatuation  for  the  unattainable  (in  the  guise  of 
Sally).  Or  possibly  the  cause  was  another  lady,  most  mala 
droit  and  inopportune,  she  who  never  waited  her  cues,  but 
entered  unbidden. 

Just  now  the  faithful  Agatha,  who  took  the  place  of  butler, 
an  official  unheard  of  in  Salthaven  even  in  the  Huntington 
household,  was  shrilling  up  the  stairs, — 

"Telephone  for  Mr.  Philip." 

His  father  rose  with  an  eagerness,  suspiciously  high- 
keyed. 

"I'll  answer,  my  boy,  you  hurry  and  dress." 

This  was  the  second  time  that  the  old  gentleman  had  in 
sisted  on  answering  the  call.  Philip  guessed  there  had  been 
others.  He  was  right  about  that. 

He  stole  to  the  door  and  listened,  the  end  of  the  conver 
sation  that  he  could  hear  being  suspicious  enough. 

"No!" 

127 


128  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

("Just  five  minutes?") 

"Not  one  second!"  But  the  receiver  half  way  back  to 
the  hook,  was  replaced  at  his  ear. 

("Cost  yuh  something  if  yuh  don't.") 

"You  threaten?  Why,  that's  blackmail! — I'll  call  the 
police." 

("Wouldn't  you  like  to  know  the  name  an'  number?") 
This  sally  being  accompanied  by  laughter  unmistakably 
feminine  but  suggesting  bronze  rather  than  any  precious 
metal. 

Now  it  is  maddening  to  be  jeered  at  by  someone  who 
stands  incog,  at  the  other  end  of  a  wire,  and  the  old  gentle 
man  fumed. 

"I  can  find  it,  young  woman,  and  when  I  do,  you'll  be  run 
out  of  town." 

("All  right,  dearie,  but  lissen, — before  you  do,  just  take 
your  bunch  of  keys  an'  unlock  that  closet  an'  give  the  little 
ol'  skeleton  the  O.  O.  If  he  looks  good  to  you,  all  right, 
for  we're  goin'  to  'xhibit  him  on  Preble  Street,  sure  as  you're 
bald  an'  got  false  teeth  an'  one  foot  in  the  grave.") 

The  only  reply  now  was  the  receiver's  click,  and  as  Mas 
ter  Philip  returned  to  his  grooming,  suddenly  beset  was  he 
with  impulses  for  reform,  quite  as  elusive  as  that  collar- 
button. 

Now  these  implements  of  torture  were  troubling  many 
good  citizens  of  the  town  that  night,  but  that  such  should 
disturb  Master  Phil,  the  dapper,  the  immaculate,  was  in 
deed  surprising.  However,  it  takes  but  a  trifle  to  suggest  a 
horror.  And  now  somehow,  by  a  strange  association,  as  he 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  129 

stood  before  the  mirror,  the  little  gold  stud  brought  up  a 
picture  of  another, — one  of  plain  bone,  in  the  band  of  a  shirt 
always  greasy  and  collarless.  And  above  that  band,  the 
bleary  green  eyes  and  foul  whiskers  of  a  wicked  old  man. 
Over  his  shoulders  he  could  see  the  face  blinking  at  him  in 
the  mirror,  as  the  saw  mouth  jeered, — 

"May  God  have  mercy  on  yer  soul !" 

It  wasn't  exactly  a  pleasant  recalling  of  that  night  at  the 
wharf,  the  fight,  the  foul  blow.  Whether  the  latter  had  been 
fatal  or  not  there  had  been  no  means  of  determining. 

Just  before  the  figure  dissolved  from  the  glass,  it  stuck 
one  finger  down  between  the  band  and  the  neck,  and  ran  it 
round  with  a  peculiarly  significant  gesture. 

So  real  it  was  that  Master  Phil  hurled  his  shaving  mug 
at  the  apparition,  shattering  the  mirror  beyond  repair. 
Agatha,  passing  the  doorway  just  then,  threw  up  her  hands. 

"Lord  forgive  us !"  she  mumbled,  "there'll  be  no  luck  in 
that  match !" 

But  the  "chug,  chug"  of  the  motor  sounded  outside,  with 
the  pleasant  and  reassuring  purr  of  prosperity,  and  the  voice 
of  his  father  followed — jovial,  almost  too  resolutely  jovial. 

"Hurry,  my  boy,  never  keep  a  girl  waiting  on  a  night  like 
this." 

It  was  perplexing  that  the  old  gentleman  didn't  sound  out 
the  boy  about  this  mystery,  but  he  himself  was  feverishly 
grasping  at  the  hope  that  the  wedding  would  prove  the  ending 
of  this  and  many  other  problems  that  had  been  troubling  him 
ever  since  Philip's  unique  adolescence  began. 

With  fingers  still  trembling,  the  groom  finished  dressing, 

9 


130  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

descended  the  stairs,  and  bowled  off  towards  the  church  in 
his  shiny,  seven-passenger  car. 

And,  now,  a  few  streets  away,  the  high-pitched  voice  of 
Aunt  Abigail  was  calling  up  the  stairs  to  the  bride. 

The  girl  paused,  though  she  was  dressed  and  ready.  Be 
fore,  in  that  slender  body  there  had  always  been  an  elasticity, 
delicate  yet  invigorating  and  delightful  to  see.  Now  she 
almost  seemed  to  sag — on  the  brink. 

It  was  so  short  a  step  over  that  doorsill.  Over  it  she  had 
skipped  light-heartedly  all  the  years  of  her  life.  Why  did 
she  hesitate  and  shrink  back  now  as  though  a  chasm  lay  be 
yond? 

That  it  is  a  momentous  step  for  any  maiden  when  she 
passes  beyond  the  threshold  for  the  last  time,  she  knew — 
even  when  happiness  beckons.  She  had  no  right  to  ask 
greater  security  than  any  of  the  long  host  that  had  passed 
that  way,  but  she  could  see,  on  the  other  side,  only  spirits 
of  evil  lurking  for  her.  And  in  the  room,  the  dear  ghosts  of 
her  youth  were  pleading  with  faintly  discerned  hands,  wav 
ing  her  back. 

Here,  on  the  old  walnut  bed,  she  had  fallen  asleep  with 
the  pure  dreams  of  childhood,  awaking,  as  the  years  went  on, 
to  the  shy  sweet  visions  of  first  love.  On  the  bureau  lay  the 
pansy  pin  with  the  rhinestone  heart,  which  Captain  Harve 
had  given  her  on  her  tenth  birthday;  beside  it,  the  red,  all 
too  suddenly-ended  diary;  the  high-school  pennant  on  the 
wall.  In  the  closet  stood  the  slippers  her  godfather  had 
brought  her  from  Valparaiso  or  some  strange  port;  and 
above  them,  the  red  Tam,  which,  in  his  memories,  Ben  would 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  131 

always  see  crowning  her  hair.  The  little  jade  god,  his  gift, 
still  grinned  like  a  merry  Billiken.  This  and  all  the  other 
mutely  eloquent  things  she  saw  through  a  mist — but  not  of 
tears.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  have  cried  over  any  catas 
trophe  now. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  leaned  out.  The  old  sweet 
fragrance  of  the  honeysuckle,  the  apple-orchard,  the  silver 
grey  of  the  sea,  were  the  same — yet  not  at  all  the  same. 

She  looked  at  the  sky  beyond  the  trees.  Clouds,  feebly  lit 
by  flashes  of  far-off  lightning,  obscured  the  Western  half, 
but  one  gold  star  still  shone  in  the  East,  by  the  Light.  Maybe 
Ben  was  in  that  star,  awaiting  her.  Absurd  fancy,  of  course, 
but  as  with  all  our  ideas  of  Heaven  hers  were  not  so  very 
clearly  defined,  and,  in  the  dulling  monotony  of  grief,  like 
Ben  on  his  far  away  island,  she  had  slipped  back  into  the 
childlike  mind. 

"Some  day,  dearest,  we'll  be  together  again."  And,  for 
the  time,  it  comforted  her,  the  mere  trying  to  believe  it  so. 

So  at  last  the  tears  welled  in  her  eyes,  stole  down  her 
cheeks,  and  lay  on  the  white  veil  like  dew  on  the  pure 
anemones  in  Spring. 

Above,  the  great  eye  of  the  Light  opened  and  shut,  opened 
and  shut,  as  it  had  for  so  many  years.  Then  the  clouds 
travelled  over  the  face  of  the  star.  And  on  the  stairs  be 
low,  sounded  the  "tamp,  tamp,  tamp,"  of  a  cane,  seeming  as 
immemorial  and  importunate  as  the  summons  of  Fate  in  the 
Beethoven  symphony.  Over  the  threshold  she  stepped  at 
last — and  went  down  to  them. 

Then  the  three, — Aunt  Abigail,   Cap'n  Bluster,  and  the 


132  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

bride,  entered  the  coach,  the  most  famous  of  the  historic 
vehicles  that  had  carried  the  brides  and  mourners  of  more 
than  one  generation,  and  rode  statelily  towards  the  church. 

She  felt  not  the  majesty  of  the  occasion,  but  sank  back, 
a  pathetic  wisp  in  the  corner,  as  though,  fearing  the  touch  of 
some  hated  hand,  she  were  unwilling  to  let  any  come  near 
her.  Nor  did  she  feel  the  pathos  now.  The  self-pity,  if  it 
had  been  that  she  experienced  in  the  upper  room,  was  suc 
ceeded  by  another  mood,  the  ashes  of  apathy  banked  over  a 
smouldering  rage.  The  driver  had  chosen  the  lower  road. 
From  the  window  she  could  see  the  waters.  The  tide  and 
the  clouds  seemed  to  travel  with  them.  She  would  have 
been  glad  if  the  horses  had  only  fallen,  sparing  the  rest,  but 
carrying  her  own  heavy  heart  down  the  hill  into  the  sea.  But 
there  was  no  such  salvation,  no  way  out.  The  ride  wound 
up,  as  all  unhappy  journeys,  even  to  the  gallows,  have  a  habit 
of  ending,  at  its  appointed  destination. 

The  doors  were  open,  and  they  could  see  the  lights  and  the 
crowd  within.  Half-way  up  the  walk,  she  paused. 

On  the  Sabbath,  there  was  something  of  the  harsh  about 
the  historic  edifice  although  it  never  reached  the  unlovely. 
From  the  lofty,  unadorned  ceiling,  hung  the  severest  of  gas 
chandeliers,  suggesting  nothing  so  much  as  crowns  fashioned 
for  some  race  of  giant  kings,  or  iron  haloes  for  a  hierarchy 
of  tall  Puritan  saints.  High  windows  of  unstained  glass, 
like  ascetic  eyes,  looked  arched  askance  at  the  worshippers 
uncomfortably  ranged  in  the  pews  below.  The  tablets  be 
tween  the  windows,  commemorating  departed  heroes  of 
frigate  and  ship-of-the-line,  had  no  illumining  about  their 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  133 

letters ;  and  the  three-quarters  gallery  was  primly-railed,  the 
pulpit  austere,  and  the  attitude  of  the  pews  eternally  stiff  and 
uncompromising. 

But  tonight,  little  tongues  of  flame  from  many  jets  softened 
the  rigidity,  giving  the  old  oak  and  walnut  the  suggestion  of 
polished  mahogany ;  and  festoons  of  purple  aster  and  golden- 
rod  added  a  royal  emblazoning.  Altogether  it  should  have 
been  a  most  charming  scene,  but  somehow  it  wasn't. 

Suddenly  turning  to  the  right,  just  before  she  entered,  she 
saw  a  figure,  a  woman's.  She  was  perched  on  a  gravestone 
of  some  old  admiral  or  saint,  looking  in  through  the  window 
at  the  assembled  guests.  The  intermittent  lightning  flashed, 
turning  the  cerise  dress  into  a  dark  crimson  blur  against  the 
lowering  sky.  Beside  her,  also  against  the  headstone,  leaned 
another  figure,  somewhat  taller.  Dimly  she  made  it  out  to 
be  that  of  a  man.  Another  flash  forked  across  the  sky,  its 
reflection  winking  over  the  headstones,  so  crazily  leaning  that 
they  seemed  to  stagger.  She  started — she  must  be  "seeing 
things."  That  woman  crouched  like  a  dark  blood  smear 
against  the  grey  of  the  graves — and  that  other  face!  Her 
practicality  had  always  rejected  stagy,  sentimental  fancies, 
but  somehow  tonight  she  couldn't  conceive  of  it  as  anything 
but  pallid,  even  sneering,  like  the  Prince  of  Darkness. 

She  shuddered  and  rubbed  her  eyes,  half  thinking  herself 
mad  as  that  bride  in  the  story  she  had  read — of  Lammer- 
moor.  But  there  they  were — the  two,  apparently  in  the  flesh 
—  A  jolly  wedding  with  such  guests ! 

But  this  wasn't  like  her ;  she  simply  must  not  give  way  to 
such  fancies.  She  straightened  herself  and  laughed  aloud. 


i34  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

It  was  utterly  unlike  the  old  laugh,  harsh,  with  none  of  the 
old  silver  in  it. 

Aunt  Abigail  recalled  her  to  the  event  at  hand  with  a  snort 
of  disapproval. 

"Sally!"    One  word,  but  sufficient! 

And  Captain  Bluster,  blind  in  more  ways  than  one,  though 
he  heard  the  Huntington  doubloons  clinking  loudly  enough, 
patted  her  arm  clumsily. 

"Come,  come,  my  lass,  it'll  soon  be  over."  Ah,  but  there 
was  the  rub.  Would  it? 

In  the  vestibule  she  paused  to  adjust  her  veil.  Not  heeding 
at  all  the  ecstatic  whispers  of  Stella  Appleby,  her  maid-of- 
honour,  she  surveyed  the  pews,  then,  urged  by  some  strange 
compulsion,  turned,  and  at  one  of  the  rear  windows  saw  the 
two  faces  staring  in, — the  woman's  and  the  man's,  the  one 
angry  and  scornful,  the  other  mocking — oh,  yes,  it  was,  it 
was  mocking!  She  knew  them  for  the  two  of  the  grave 
yard. 

Now,  the  strange  woman  who  in  the  flash  of  the  lightning 
had  seemed  clad  in  a  robe  of  blood,  was  herself  in  deadly 
fear  of  a  medium's  prophecy.  It  therefore  seems  incredible 
to  credit  her  with  occult  powers.  Those  other  eyes — of  the 
man  beside  her —  rather  suggested  these  disturbing  things, 
perhaps  even  deserving  the  term  malevolent.  But  Carlotta 
was  almost  supernatural  in  her  gift  for  clowning,  uncanny 
in  her  power  of  placing  another  in  an  embarrassing  position. 
She  could  have  turned  Elsa  into  a  Vesta  Tilley,  the  holy 
grail  into  a  stein.  In  fact,  it  has  been  reported  that  once 
when  she  had  gone  to  attend  the  funeral  of  some  old  Broad- 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  135 

way  first-nighter  and  squire  of  "Janes,"  she  had  entered  the 
room,  humming  unconsciously  but  so  entrancingly  to  herself 
that  the  knee  of  the  corpse  was  seen  to  twitch — the  whole  side 
of  the  coffin  was  down — vainly  pawing  the  air  as  if  trying 
to  execute  a  one-step.  Now  even  if  exaggerated,  this  grue 
some  story  has  much  of  truth,  in  its  spirit.  And  she  seemed 
even  now  to  be  giving  just  such  a  farcical  touch  to  the  whole 
proceedings. 

It  seems  strange,  however,  that  she  should  have  had  any 
effect  on  forthright  Sally,  always  so  straight-seeing, 
courageous,  and  loyal.  But  Sally's  nerves  were  snarled  and 
jangling.  Perhaps  in  her  distraught  state  she  was  savage,  and 
even  welcomed,  as  a  showing  up,  a  facing  of  facts,  the 
burlesque  into  which  the  ceremony  was  threatening  to  turn. 
Afterwards  she  never  knew  whether  to  weep  with  vexation, 
shudder  in  horror,  or  to  laugh,  at  the  madness,  the  wild  con 
fusion,  the  absurdity,  of  it  all. 

In  any  event,  now,  as  the  evil  influence  in  the  famous  play 
transforms  by  its  very  propinquity  the  characters  in  the 
cast  to  its  own  light,  to  its  own  kind — the  place,  the  people 
were  changed  for  her.  So,  too,  a  pilot  of  the  spot-light  can 
transform  the  whole  complexion  of  a  scene  by  throwing  a 
new  hue  upon  it.  Sally's  eyes  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to 
be  following  some  such  baleful  rays  projected  from  that 
window.  They  were  all  neighbours  whom  she  had  known  and 
loved, — simple,  kindly  folk,  walking  well-ordered  ways.  Yet 
now  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the  chatter,  the  witticisms  — 
from  years  of  acquaintance  she  could  almost  quote  them 
verbatim — instead  of  being  lighthearted,  cheery,  and  amus- 


136  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

ing,  racy  of  salt  water  and  the  soil,  were  all  too  obvious  and 
coarse.  And  everywhere  the  faces,  the  costumes,  were  ex 
aggerated,  not  heightened  into  tragedy — that  were  forgive- 
able — but  twisted  into  the  grotesque,  into  caricature. 

The  male  part  of  the  congregation  were  no  longer  sound 
citizens  to  whom  she  gave  her  respect  and  loyalty,  but 
awkward  yokels,  with  uneasy  Adam's  apples  above  unyield 
ing  linen  armour-plate.  The  salty  atmosphere  which  always 
pleasantly  enveloped  the  old  sea-captains  abjectly  surren 
dered  to  the  bay  rum  emanating  from  the  stout  person  of 
Gus  Peters  "the  livery,"  who  had  so  unsuccessfully  tried  to 
conceal  the  aroma  of  the  stable. 

On  the  edge  of  her  pew  perched  Lizzie  Rountree,  the 
plump  milliner.  Well  Sally  knew  the  journey  she  was  in 
fancy  taking — up  the  flower  bordered  aisle,  with  the  sailor 
sweetheart  lost  so  many  years  ago.  There  should  have  been 
pathos  there,  but  it  was  irretrievably  gone.  She  was  merely 
a  fat,  simpering  old  maid. 

And  Mrs.  Dr.  Ferguson.  A  moment  ago  she  had  been  just 
a  sweet  little  old  lady,  the  youthful  wave  crinkling  her  silver 
hair;  her  husband  a  warring  saint  who  had  ministered  to 
the  bodily  and  spiritual  needs  of  the  village  for  seventy 
years.  Now  the  lovelight  was  befogged  into  senility. 

Two  seats  behind  them,  the  little  birdlike  postmistress, 
Phoebe  Prentice,  was  whispering  to  Mrs.  Schauffler — oh,  yes, 
Sally  could  hear  her  as  well  as  if  she  had  been  by  her  side — 
"Ain't  that  sweet  now, — the  two  dear  old  people,  lovers  still 
at  seventy?"  Suddenly  Phoebe,  too,  grew  ridiculous. 

And  then,  as  Millie  Smith,  seeing  the  reflection  of  the  bridal 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  137 

party  in  the  mirror  beside  the  keys,  struck  up  the  familiar 
wedding  march,  almost  the  girl  expected  the  dulcet  strains 
of  Lohengrin  to  backslide  into  hideous  ragtime. 

Truly  Carlotta  was  having  at  least  part  of  her  revenge. 

The  veil  was  shivering  now,  as  the  mist  of  green  leaves 
around  the  silver  birch  when  the  slender  trunk  under  it  is 
trembling,  too.  Was  she  actually  going  mad — stark,  staring 
mad?  Where  was  the  old  loyalty,  the  old  sweetness  of  life? 
For  one  black  moment  she  hated  the  strangers,  she  hated 
herself,  she  hated  everybody.  She  could  have  screamed, 
and,  had  she  been  less  of  a  Spartan,  would  have  fallen  in 
one  of  Stella's  statuesque  faints,  but  instead,  she  straightened 
herself — slowly — as  if  to  shake  off  the  spell,  and  dug  her 
nails  deep  into  her  palms,  muttering, — "I've  promised — I 
must  go  through  with  it,"  then  started  up  the  aisle. 

Meanwhile,  the  woman  outside,  who  had  returned  to  her 
strange  eerie  on  the  headstone,  was  not  realizing  this  phase 
of  her  revenge.  She  was  all  unconscious  of  any  preter 
natural  gifts,  and  her  conversation  was  pitched  in  another 
key  than  the  sublime  or  horrific.  She  was  at  the  moment 
replying  angrily  to  her  taunting  companion : 

"For  Gawd's  sake,  leave  me  alone.  If  you  had  what's 
comin'  to  you,  you'd  be  lyin'  at  right  angles  to  where  you're 
standing  now,  and  six  feet  under." 

"Nerves,  feminine  nerves!"  exclaimed  MacAllister,  but 
Carlotta  turned  on  him  in  a  fury. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?  Haven't  you 
gotta  plan?  I  thought  you  wasn't  solid  above  the  shoul 
ders." 


138  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Little  saint!  How  like  an  angel  you  do  look  upon  that 
grave !" 

"I  may  look  it,  but  I  feel  like  the  Devil,"  then,  as  the 
lightning  by  some  queer  distortion  revealed  the  crazy  colony 
of  the  dead  apparently  staggering  to  and  fro,  she  softened 
her  voice  to  an  awed  though  raucous  stage-whisper, — 
"Say,  Mac,  we  oughta  choose  some  other  set.  Supposin'  the 
Devil  was  walkin'  round  here,  now !"  She  looked  up  at  him 
— "  maybe  you're  him  yourself,  who  knows." 

And  he  repeated  airily :  "Who  knows !" 

But  as  the  thunder  rolled  again,  a  little  nearer  on  the  heels 
of  the  lightning  this  time,  she  cowered  against  him  in  spite 
of  the  imputed  diablerie. 

"Oh,  Mac,"  she  wailed,  "can't  you  help  me  out?" 

"Well,  you  might  do  the  Clyde  Fitch,  Moth  and  the  Flame 
act.  It's  highly  dramatic — and  an  ideal  role  for  you,  you 
sweet,  sorrow-stricken  soul." 

"For  the  love  of  Pete,  speak  English !  Yuh  talk  like  reci 
tation  day  in  the  district  school. —  But  what's  this  fire 
act?" 

"Oh,  you  rush  up  to  the  altar  as  they  pronounce  the  beau 
tiful  and  fatal  words.  Now  listen,  Desdamona,  and  get  this 
right.  When  the  sky-pilot  in  there  says  feelingly,  through 
his  nose, —  'Or  forever  after  hold  your  peace,'  you  rise  from 
your  seat,  and  raise  your  hand,  outraged,  thus,  to  high 
Heaven — and  give  'em  Hell " 

"We're  getting  that  ourselves  right  now,"  she  shrieked 
with  a  crashing  bolt  and  a  foretaste  of  the  rain  to  follow. 
"Hadn't  you  better  cut  out  that  language?" 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  139 

"Oh,  come,  C'arlotta,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  be 
lieve  in  a  Hell !" 

''Didn't  believe  it  where  the  lights  was  bright,"  she  mut 
tered,  looking  half-fearfully  around,  "but  I'm  not  so  sure — 
here." 

"Well  you'd  better  mosey  along  into  the  holy  place — but 
hold  on — to  do  it  up  brown,  you  ought  to  have  a  brat." 

"If  you  keep  on  doin'  a  Joe  Webber,"  she  returned,  "we 
might  as  well  split.  You  don't  seem  to  care  at  all — just 
stand  there  grinnin'  like  a  rube  at  the  circus,  as  if  you  was 
enjoyin'  yourself." 

"No,  your  most  charming  and  amusing  self,"  he  amended. 
"But  let  'em  get  spliced,  we  can  cash  in,  after  as  well  as 
before." 

"All  right,  Benedick  Arnstein,  if  you're  goin'  ta  desert 
me  in  the  pinch  I'll  do  a  little  hittin'  myself.  Anyway,  I'm 
not  goin'  to  stand  out  here  with  that  any  longer.  An'  if  I 
can't  stop  that  weddin',  I'll  queer  it — an'  that's  somethin' 
after  all." 

Yes,  it  was  something  after  all. 

But  now  the  organ  notes,  mellowing  under  Milly's  skilful 
hand,  floated  out  on  the  night  air.  From  the  vestry  door 
the  groom's  party  approached  the  altar,  as  the  lovely  vision, 
rather  wraith  than  girl,  passed  up  the  aisle.  A  subdued  hush 
settled  on  the  pews,  broken  only  by  the  soft  susurrus  of 
feminine  whispers, —  "Isn't  she  sweet?"  "Isn't  she 
lovely?"  Then  came  the  solemn  pause — followed  by  the 
minister's  voice,  sonorous  yet  fittingly  modulated,  as  he  re 
peated  the  impressive  words  of  the  old,  old  rite,  so  beautiful 


140  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

and  brief,  and  yet  sometimes  so  long  and  terrible  in  their 
consequences. 

"Beloved,  we  are  gathered  together — "  So  he  came  to  the 
old  question, 

"Do  you,  Philip? " 

But  the  answer  was  snatched  from  the  groom's  lips 

Sally,  herself,  apparently  nothing  but  an  automaton  now, 
lovely  though  she  was,  could  afterwards  recount  it — always 
between  laughter  and  tears — so  every  detail  of  the  incidents 
that  followed  must  have  been  indelibly  though  subconsciously 
registered.  For  it  was  at  this  juncture  that  the  gods  of 
Laughter  intervened,  providentially,  of  course,  for  theirs  is 
the  wisdom  of  tears.  But  from  that  moment  the  dignity  and 
solemnity  befitting  the  occasion,  and  so  far  bravely  upheld, 
were  irretrievably  lost. 

Concerned  as  he  was,  Captain  Fairwinds  wanted  to  roar 
out  in  relieving  mirth — he  did  afterwards,  out  under  the 
stars.  His  own  memory  held  nothing  like  it  for  a  mixture 
of  the  sacred  and  profane,  except  possibly  the  Holy  Week 
processions  in  the  cathedral  cities  of  old  Spain, — the 
grotesque  holy  images,  the  jewelled  Virgin  dancing  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  revelling  marchers,  the  Macareros  in  gay- 
coloured,  slitted  masks,  the  kneeling  throng,  the  drunken 
singers,  the  benedictions  and  Rabelaisian  jests  interspersed, 
the  hymns,  the  clashing  instruments — the  whole  discordant 
pandemonium.  But  in  old  world  haunts  one  expects  some 
times  the  sacrament  to  be  tinctured  with  colourful  ribaldry 
— in  this  cool  austere  shrine  of  the  ancient  Fathers — 
never ! 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  141 

But  it  was  not  unlike  it, — the  question, — "Do  you,  Philip, 
take  this  woman?"  and  the  answer  taken  from  his  mouth, — 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I  do !"  shattering  the  silences  to  the  very 
belfry  rafters — not  from  the  rouged  lips  of  Carlotta,  peering 
down  from  the  gallery,  the  spot  she  had  chosen  as  most  effec 
tive,  but  from  some  seemingly  preternatural  being  in  that 
strange  procession,  as  weird  and  motley  as  any  in  Spanish 
streets,  and  now  advancing  up  the  aisle. 

A  little  man  led  it,  grinning  widely  and  looking  as  self- 
important  as  only  a  little  man  can  feel.  He  was  followed  by 
a  taller  figure  with  curling  brown  beard,  brass  earrings,  and 
a  red  and  yellow  handkerchief  about  his  head.  His  heavy 
shoes  sounded  with  almost  a  convict's  thud,  even  on  the  car 
peted  aisle,  and  he  in  turn  led  a  little  yellow  cur,  and  carried 
a  cage  wherein  swung  the  reprobate  who  had  so  rudely  inter 
rupted  the  rites.  He  or  she — it  matters  not  which,  for  sex 
places  no  restrictions  on  depravity — continued  the  maledic 
tions. 

Meanwhile  Milly's  organ  had  stopped  with  a  crash;  the 
minister  stood,  his  mouth  agape,  and  on  his  face  the  most 
bewildered  and  outraged  of  expressions ;  the  audience  stared, 
transfixed  in  their  seats;  while,  coming  from  the  rear,  the 
sexton  tried  to  halt  the  strange  procession,  now  halfway  to 
the  altar.  But  he  didn't  help  matters  at  all,  in  his  rashness 
merely  stepping  on  the  little  dog's  paw,  and  an  agonized 
yelping  added  to  the  mad  pandemonium. 

As  for  the  bride,  she  was  still  too  benumbed  to  analyze 
anything —  if  anyone  could  analyze  so  fantastic  a  visitation. 
But  automatically  and  vaguely  she  imputed,  or  connected  it 


142  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

rather,  with  the  stranger  two — there  was  the  woman,  now, 
with  arms  folded  on  the  gallery  rail,  peering  down  at  her 
with  amused  triumphant  eyes,  and  clad  like  the  scarlet  sym 
bol  of  old.  It  was  nothing  so  fine  and  dramatic  as  that — it 
was  a  farce — a  circus — nothing  more.  It  was  all  so  horrible 
— or  was  it  now — rather  fitting,  in  fact ;  the  blasphemies,  the 
sacrilege  quite  appropriate. 

So  there  they  were,  advancing  up  the  aisle,  the  parrot  still 
shrieking  out  his  abominable  "I'll  be  damned  if  I  do." 

Sally  was  little  given  to  profanity — however,  dazed  as  she 
was,  the  grotesque  fancy  occurred  to  her  that  this  should 
have  been  precisely  her  own  answer,  if  she  had  had  the 
courage  and  sense.  It  was  odd  that  as  yet  she  didn't  see  in 
the  rude  interruption  the  sign  of  a  respite  if  not  of  an  ulti 
mate  reprieve. 

But  now  the  little  man  was  taking  something  from  the 
tall  funny  looking  one,  and  was  handing  it  to  her.  She  tried 
to  grasp  it,  but  it  fell  from  her  fingers.  Captain  Harve  was 
picking  it  up.  But  what  was  the  little  man  saying  ? 

"Better  look  at  it,  Lady  Celeste,  it's  your  pardon  from  the 
governor."  Then  to  himself, — "Stopped  at  the  altar — 
saved  from  the  electric  chair !  Shades  of  Jean  Libby !  Can 
y'  beat  it !  Why  it's  the  sensation  of  the  year — the  scoop  of 
the  ages !" 

Captain  Fairwinds  looked  up  from  the  scroll  and  spoke 
to  the  little  man. 

"I  don't  know  where  you  hail  from,  or  where  you  got  this, 
but  let  me  tell  you,  son,  it's  no  time  for  practical  joking." 

"From  the  look  of  the  bride  and  the  merry  bridegroom 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  143 

there,  I  should  say  it  wasn't,"  responded  Butts.  "But  it's 
on  the  level,  all  right."  He  turned  to  the  foreigner.  "Here, 
Flying  Dutch,  you  tell  him  where  you  got  the  news." 

Spanish  Dick  thrust  his  face  into  the  group  in  childlike 
bewilderment  at  it  all,  but  he  comprehended  enough  of  Butts' 
admonition  to  answer: 

"Si,  Senor  capitan,  I  found  it  in  a  bottle.  From  the  sea  it 
came — I  swear  it  by  all  the  saints — by  Santa  Maria  de  Colon 
-by " 

"Shush,"  interposed  Butts,  "haven't  you  got  any  tact? 
You'll  offend  'His  Nibs,'  "  shrugging  his  shoulder  at  the 
minister,  "you're  in  a  Puritan  hangout  now." 

Then  he  went  on  to  the  captain,  "He's  told  you  the  truth. 
He  picked  it  up  down  in  Jersey,  on  Barnabee  Beach — and 
it  cost  my  last  cent  to  tote  it  here." 

"It  won't  be  your  last,  son,  if  it's  genuine,"  the  captain 
assured  him,  then  grasping  Sally's  arm  with  an  unconscious 
roughness  in  his  excitement,  exclaimed, — 

"And,  by  Godfrey,  it  does  seem  genuine !" 

But  seeing  the  frightened  look  in  her  eyes,  he  addressed  her 
tenderly, — 

"Sally,  look  here,  can't  you  stand  some  news — if  it's  good 
news?  Well,  it's  a  miracle,  almost  too  good  to  be  true, 
but " 

He  saw  that  she  didn't  comprehend  what  he  was  saying 
at  all,  but  stood  there,  still  in  that  daze,  and  her  answering 
query  was  almost  petulant. 

"What  is  it?    Oh,  what  is  it?" 

"He's  alive  and  well — here,  read  it  yourself." 


144  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Still,  she  didn't  even  look  at  it,  but  instead  kept  looking 
at  the  scarlet  figure  in  the  gallery,  then,  turning  to  the  minis 
ter,  rasped  out, — 

"For  pity's  sake,  get  this  thing  over!" 

But  the  Captain  was  taking  her  into  his  arms. 

"Sally,  it  isn't  going  on.  I  guess  you  didn't  understand. 
There's  a  message  from  Ben " 

"Ben  ?"  it  was  a  sigh  of  despair,  then  a  look  almost  of  hope 
broke  over  her  face.  "A  message?" 

"Yes,  this  man — God  bless  him — picked  it  up  on  the  shore 
— it's  true — let  me  read  it  to  you." 

"  'Shipwrecked  on  island — about  latitude  eighteen  north 
— longitude  sixty-two  west — alive — well — '  hear  that,  girl, 
he's  alive  and  well — 'Notify  Captain  Harvey  Brent — and 
Miss  Sally  Fell.'  See,  it's  sent  to  you — there's  the  signa 
ture." 

But  it  was  the  voice  of  the  parrot  that  really  called  her 
back.  With  her  astounding  flare  for  the  ironic  and  appro 
priate,  she  was  shrieking  at  the  bridegroom, 

"Buss  the  lass,  matey,  buss  the  lass." 

Not  heeding  this  rudeness,  Sally  was  looking  wildly 
into  her  godfather's  face. 

"Oh,  don't  fool  me  now!  I  could  have  stood  it  before, 
but  I  can't  go  through  with  it  again." 

"We're  not  fooling  you,  Sally." 

Striving  hard  for  comprehension,  she  looked  down  at  the 
bit  of  bark.  Yes,  there  were  the  letters,  looming  large, 
even  through  the  mist  she  could  see  them — his  name  at  the 
bottom.  So  at  last  she  accepted  the  release. 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  145 

But  the  bridegroom,  who  in  his  fright  had  been  presenting 
rather  a  sorry  figure,  recovered  his  self-possession,  and  tried 
to  pull  her  back. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  go  on  with  the  ceremony!  She's 
promised  to  me,  and  no  phony  play  like  that  can  stop  it." 

"The  boy's  right.  Come  on,  Doctor  Storrs,"  put  in  Cap'n 
Bluster,  the  starboard  side  of  the  wing-and-wing  whiskers 
almost  pulled  out  in  his  agitation.  But  his  friend  waved  him 
aside — 

"You've  done  enough  harm  already,  Hiram,  to  last  a  life 
time — .  As  for  you,  my  lad,  you  ought  to  know  when  you're 
aground." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  elder  Huntington  — 

"The  whole  thing's  a  profanation,  John.  I'm  sorry  for 
your  sake,  but  you'd  better  get  that  young  hopeful  out  of  the 
way  quick.  This  is  the  church,  but,  outside,  I  won't  answer 
for  him." 

So  the  unwilling  groom  was  hustled  through  the  vestry 
door — and  Sally  was  in  truth  called  back  from  the  brink. 

And  now  the  floodgates  had  broken  loose  in  the  pews. 
There  were  congratulations  and  commiserations,  according 
to  the  relationship,  and  "Oh's"  and  "Ah's,"  and  a  regular 
feasting  on  sentiment  and  thrills.  And  there  was  a  sudden 
onslaught  on  the  altar,  and  a  crowding  to  see  the  strange  mes 
senger  and  its  tattered  bearer,  who  in  time  grew  to  be  a  real 
ragged  messenger  sent  from  Heaven  in  answer  to  Sally's 
faith  and  prayers. 

As  for  Butts,  poor  Butts,  he  never  saw  his  scoop  in  print, 
for,  as  he  dashed  out  to  interview  the  jilted  bridegroom, 


146  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Master  Phil  seeing  him,  savagely  "threw  her  into  high," 
turned  the  corner  at  a  perilous  angle,  skidded,  and  bowled 
over  the  intrepid  reporter.  Anyway,  he  died  through  devotion 
to  his  duty,  and,  having  no  kith  or  kin,  was  buried  with  appro 
priate  honours  among  the  gravestones  where  Carlotta  had 
but  lately  perched. 

But  Sally  reached  her  home  safely.  However,  it  wasn't  long 
after  Captain  Harve's  protecting  presence  had  been  with 
drawn  that  she  heard  the  cane  ascending  the  stairs  step  by 
step,  then  her  father's  voice  booming  through  the  locked 
door, — 

"Listen  to  me — I'm  cap'n  of  this  ship,  and  I  say  you've 
got  to  marry  him — next  week.  That'll  give  her  time  to  blow 
over.  If  you  won't,  I'll  throw  you  overboard,  disown  you, 
d'y'hear?" 

Very  probably  he  didn't  mean  it,  at  least  literally,  for  he 
regretted  his  words  very  bitterly  next  morning,  when  it  was 
too  late. 

For  just  as  the  grandfather's  clock  struck  ten  in  the  hall 
below,  a  half-hour  after  receiving  this  ultimatum,  Sally  Fell 
threw  a  few  things  into  her  bag,  and  once  more  climbed  over 
that  trellis,  and  so  hastened  over  the  lawn,  through  the  sibyllic 
gate,  down  the  hill  to  the  wharf  where  Captain  Harve's  ship, 
the  North  Star,  lay  moored,  due  to  sail  in  the  morning, 
when  the  tide  was  right. 

Most  of  the  crew  were  celebrating  on  shore.  She  could 
hear  the  snatches  of  song  from  Tom  Grogan's  now,  across 
Water  Street  and  up  the  dark  alley.  The  moon  had  thought 
fully  hidden  her  face.  Except  for  a  green  light  or  two,  it 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  147 

was  dark,  and  the  watch  was  drowsy.  So  she  escaped  detec 
tion  as  she  climbed  aboard.  She  selected  a  seat  in  the  prow 
of  the  port  lifeboat,  pulled  the  tarpaulin  over  her  head,  and, 
exhausted,  fell  asleep. 

Captain  Harve  was  uneasy.  Nothing  in  the  world  meant 
quite  so  much  to  him  as  that  godchild  of  his.  It  was  indeed 
a  pretty  kettle  of  fish.  Back  and  forth  through  the  narrow 
quarters  of  his  room  he  paced,  puffing  forth  great  clouds  of 
smoke  like  an  ocean  liner's  funnels. 

At  six  bells  he  picked  up  his  "warsack  "  and  left  the  place 
with  Dick,  whom  he  had  already  "signed  up."  The  wind 
had  freshened,  the  moon  had  now  completely  vanished  be 
hind  the  storm-clouds  scudding  across  the  sky,  and  before 
he  reached  the  wharf,  vast  sheets  of  rain  and  spate  from  off 
the  harbour  drove  at  his  face.  The  sea  was  running  high, 
and  the  North  Star  rose  and  fell  on  the  tide,  to  the  incessant 
crunching  of  the  piles  of  the  wharf,  the  creaking  of  her  own 
gear  and  tackle,  and  the  singing  of  the  wind  through  the 
shrouds. 

He  climbed  aboard,  and,  as  he  was  making  his  way  aft,  the 
lightning  made  town,  and  wharf,  and  ships,  and  sea,  clear 
and  distinct  in  a  sort  of  ghostly  twilight.  Not  in  his  memory 
could  he  recall  so  continuous  an  electric  storm. 

In  the  shelter  of  the  lifeboat  a  huddling  bundle  turned 
over,  revealing  a  face — in  the  weird  twilight  the  fea 
tures  seemed  those  of  a  child  who  had  sobbed  itself  to 
sleep. 

Darkness  and  rain  again,  then  another  flash,  and  he  saw 
who  it  was. 


148  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"By  the  great  Lord  Harry !"  he  ejaculated,  but  did  not  stop 
for  questioning. 

In  his  powerful  arms  he  carried  her  to  his  cabin,  lit  the 
oil  lamp,  and  in  the  dim  light  ruefully  surveyed  the  drops 
glistening  on  the  black  strands,  the  rain  of  Heaven  and  her 
heart's  own  sorrows  commingled  on  her  features. 

He  gently  pillowed  the  head.    The  eyes  opened. 

"Uncle  Harve,"  she  called,  then  for  the  first  time  in  those 
long  months  fell  back  on  hysterics. 

"It  was  terrible — that  woman — that  man — the  parrot — the 
curiosity — everyone  looking  at  me,"  then,  drying  her  tears  a 
little, — "Could  there  be  anything  holy  in  that?" 

"Nothing  but  holy  mackerel,  I  guess,"  he  replied,  trying 
to  lighten  her  mood. 

A  little  later  she  grew  calmer  and  told  him  of  her  determin 
ation.  It  was  indeed  a  prettier  kettle  of  fish  than  he  had 
imagined. 

"I  can't  go  home  now,  and  I  must  find  Ben." 

"Never  mind,  tonight.  Just  put  on  some  dry  duds  if 
you've  got  'em  in  your  bag,  and  get  a  little  more  sleep,  and 
we'll  all  have  clear  heads  to  think  it  over  in  the  morning." 

"But  I  can't  turn  you  out  of  your  cabin !" 

"Nonsense.  Rayer  is  ashore.  I'll  use  his  bunk.  Good 
night,  Sally." 

"Uncle  Harve,  come  here —  You've  got  to  be  father  as 
well  as  god-father  to  me  now." 

And  she  kissed  him.  And  as  he  left  the  cabin  he  felt  that 
like  her  mother  she  was  worth  all  the  trouble  in  the  world ; 
that  he  would  like  to  wring  the  tough  neck  of  Old  Aunt  Abi- 


A  DISCORDANT  LOHENGRIN  149 

gail,  and  that  Hiram  Fell  was  a  blind  old  fool  and — then  he, 
too,  fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning  the  weather  was  still  grey  and  fitful. 
Twice  he  went  to  his  cabin  and  listened.  There  was  no 
sound.  A  half-hour  later  he  was  taking  a  turn  on  deck  while 
the  crew  were  making  preparations  for  the  trip  south,  when 
he  was  blind-folded  by  two  hands  clasped  across  his  eyes, 
and  a  voice,  very  funny  in  its  attempted  bass,  cried: 

"Guess  who!" 

Delighted  at  the  swift  recovery  of  her  spirits,  he  seized 
both  her  hands  in  his,  took  her  blow,  and  ordered  the  cook 
to  bring  coffee  and  bacon  from  the  galley.  Between  nibbles, 
she  asked  him,  using  all  the  witchery  of  her  black  eyes  and 
voice : 

"Captain  Harve,  you'd  do  anything  for  me,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Of  course,  lass,  why?" 

"Then  take  me  to  Ben." 

He  pretended  to  be  stern. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  minx  of  a  mermaid,  don't  you 
know  that  with  high  tide  we  clear  for  Rio  ?" 

"But,  my  dear  new  daddy,"  (yes,  she  was  like  a  child  again, 
he  thought)  "Ben  is  alone  on  an  island.  He  may  be  starv 
ing  now,  or  eaten  by  wild  beasts  or  cannibals — or  what  do 
they  have  there?  Anyway  there's  something  terrible  about 
it.  I  don't  believe  any  of  those  fairy  stories  he  and  you 
used  to  tell  about  them,  beautiful,  and  floating,  and  vanish 
ing,  and  all " 

"You  don't  eh,  well  you'd  better." 

"Well  it'd  be  just  as  bad  if  the  island  vanished  with  him, 


1 50  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

wouldn't  it  now?  Anyway,  I  love  him  and  I  can't  help  cry 
ing — "  and  forthwith  she  began  to  do  so,  on  his  shoulder.  It 
was  in  truth  a  little  unusual  for  Sally,  for  she  had  never  been 
of  the  lachrymose  sort  or  one  who  used  such  strategy  to 
gain  her  ends.  But  it  was  natural  enough.  The  year's  strain 
had  told  heavily. 

And,  of  course,  like  all  strong  men  he  was  as  helpless  at 
this  sight  as  Samson  under  the  more  designed  wiles  of 
Delilah,  and  he  said,  "There,  there,"  as  they  always  do,  and 
he  patted  her  shoulder,  as  they  always  do,  and  then,  of  course, 
she  dried  her  tears,  and  both  were  fairly  rational  human 
beings  again. 

"I  meant  to  go,  all  along,  Sally,  but  I  didn't  know  about 
taking  you.  They'll  have  me  in  irons  for  kidnapping  or  ab 
duction.  Your  poor  father!  But  I'll  risk  it.  We'll  find 
that  island  somehow — and  the  lad  who's  stirred  up  this  con 
founded  mess." 

So  when  the  tide  was  right  they  sailed  away.  And  in  the 
cabin  Sally  wrote  a  note  to  Cap'n  Bluster,  which  they  gave 
to  a  passing  ship  headed  for  Boston-town,  and  she  smiled 
happily  as  she  stood  by  the  wheel,  while  Cap'n  Harve  paced 
the  quarter-deck,  and  the  great  sails  bellied,  and  the  ship  held 
up  to  her  course,  and  headed  due  south. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
BEHIND  THE  PICTURE 

THE  hall  of  the  Huntington  home  hast  a  spaciousness  and 
breadth  consonant  with  the  dignity  of  its  owners,  so  gravely 
maintained  until  this  last  heir  came  to  upset  it.  At  the  fur 
ther  end  of  the  scrupulously  waxed  floors,  stands  a  giant 
clock,  a  century  old  and  more,  with  purple  and  red  and  yellow 
festoons  of  flowers  and  fruit  decorating  its  imperturbable 
face.  On  days  when  the  air  is  still  and  all  the  doors  are  open, 
its  tongue  can  be  heard  in  the  great  cupola,  which  surmounts 
the  broad  square  roof,  overlooking  the  town,  and  command 
ing  a  view  of  harbour  and  sea  for  many  miles. 

Now,  up  to  this  sixth  of  September  there  had  been  a  legend 
in  the  family  that  the  long  black  hands  had  never  once 
stopped  their  visible  march  around  the  dial.  Six  generations 
of  Huntingtons  had  in  turn  religiously  attended  to  the  rite 
of  its  winding,  on  the  sacred  eighth  day ;  and  each  head  of 
the  line,  rather  incongruously,  when  his  hour  of  abdication 
came  and  he  had  the  least  concern  with  Time,  had  solemnly 
handed  on  the  brass  key  like  some  sacred  torch  of  his  race. 
Neglect  of  this  duty  would  have  been  held  as  disgraceful  by 
the  beruffed  figures  in  the  gilt  frames  on  the  wall  as  em 
bezzlement,  or  infraction  of  any  statute  on  the  books  of  the 
good  Bay  State. 


152  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

But  today  the  dread  sin  of  omission  had  been  committed. 
The  tongue  was  silent.  The  hands  stood  stock  still,  pointed 
at  eight,  the  fatal  hour  when  Philip's  answer  had  been  so 
sacrilegiously  yet  so  appropriately  translated.  In  the  excite 
ment  of  the  wedding,  the  elder  Huntington  had  neglected  the 
equally  important  ceremony  of  the  brass  key,  and  when  he 
and  the  luckless  bridegroom  returned  from  the  church,  the 
former  was  almost  .as  perturbed  over  this  discovery  as  the 
tragedy  at  the  altar.  Without  removing  hat  or  coat,  he  recti 
fied  the  error.  Then,  in  silence,  unbroken  save  by  the  re 
proachful  monosyllables  of  the  clock,  they  went  to  their 
rooms. 

Now,  on  three  sides  of  the  house  are  beautiful  lawns, 
shaded  by  elms  and  maples,  at  the  rear  a  garden.  Philip's 
room  in  the  northeast  corner  has  windows  overlooking  this 
garden  and  the  East  lawn.  When  the  panes  turned  to  yel 
low,  with  the  suddenly  switched-on  light,  a  figure  in  the  shel 
ter  of  the  trees  stopped  the  restless  tapping  of  her  foot  and 
intently  watched  the  shadow,  now  thrown  on  the  shade,  and 
now  withdrawn,  as  its  owner  paced  nervously  back  and  forth. 

The  front  door  clicked,  and  the  older  man  went  up  the 
street.  Next,  the  kitchen  door  opened,  throwing  a  warning 
pathway  of  light  on  the  garden,  and  the  cook  appeared  to 
discuss  with  the  neighbour's  domestic,  over  the  hedge,  the 
untoward  event  of  the  evening.  On  front  porch  and  back, 
upstairs  and  down,  in  all  Salthaven,  it  seemed  the  only  theme 
worth  discussion  that  night — and  would  probably  so  hold 
first  place  for  many  moons  to  come. 

Had  the  figure  under  the  trees  been  ignorant  of  it,  she 


BEHIND  THE  PICTURE  153 

could  have  caught  its  entire  history  from  the  conversational 
scraps  borne  from  the  gossips  by  the  night  wind. 

"Such  a  shame — him  lookin'  so  grand —  But  Ben  and  her 
kep'  company  so  long. —  The  poor  young  man — the  for 
eigner  with  them  earrings  of  gold  and  all  in  rags — but  them 
awful  words  the  parrot  used — urn,  um, — the  man  did  look 
like  the  old  boy  hisself — but  then  Master  Phil's  sowed  his 
wild  oats —  Oh,  oh,  they  do  say " 

The  two  were  now  so  engrossed  that  they  might  as  well 
have  been  gagged.  So  with  another  glance  at  the  lighted  win 
dow  and  the  nervous  shadow,  the  figure  left  the  big  elm 
for  the  porch,  and  so  through  the  door.  Quietly  she  tiptoed 
through  the  pantry  and  kitchen,  looked  about,  listened,  found 
the  back  stairs,  ascended  them,  and  entered  the  door  of  the 
northeast  chamber. 

Philip  threw  the  twentieth  quarter-smoked  cigarette  in  the 
tray.  His  hair  was  disordered,  his  face  flushed,  and  the 
whiskey  line  in  the  flask  a  full  four  inches  lower  than  a  half 
hour  before.  It  threatened  to  ebb  still  more  before  the  night 
was  much  older. 

Hearing  a  staccato  laugh,  shot  through  with  hints  of  rag 
time,  topical  songs,  and  all  such  titillating  things,  he  turned 
in  his  chair,  assuming  a  waggish  expression,  which  at  once 
changed  to  one  of  alarm. 

"Carlotta!" 

"Same  to  you,  angel-face,  how  does  it  feel  to  be  left  waitin' 
at  the  church?"  Then  glancing  at  him  coquettishly, — "You 
look  lonesome — you're  glad  ta  see  me,  aren't  you  now, 
sweetie?" 


154  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"You're  welcome  in  any  other  city  but  this,  Carlotta.  Why 
in — "  he  mentioned  a  familiar  place,  not,  it  is  to  be  assumed, 
that  he  particularly  desired  her  removal  thither,  but  merely 
as  a  vivid  instance — "didn't  you  make  a  date  for  somewhere 
else?" 

"Tried  to  all  day,  but  your  poppa  musta  kep'  his  ol'  whis 
kers  ambushin'  that  phone — stalled  me  ev'ry  time,  an'  what's 
more  humiliatin'  to  a  lady,  when  I  called,  acshually  slammed 
the  door  in  my  face." 

"Well,  it's  no  use  your  coming  here — I'm  flat  broke." 

Now  there  could  have  been  in  this  carefully  swept  room 
no  verminous  signs,  but  Carlotta  inquired  with  some  heat  as 
to  what  was  "bitin'  him,  anyway,"  then,  probably  thinking 
the  query  malapropos,  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  her  arm 
creeping  softly  around  his  neck. 

"What's  your  game,  now?"  he  shot  out,  angrily  jerking 
away  from  the  embrace. 

"Say,  kiddo,  yuh  misconstrue'  muh  intenshuns,  which  is, 
so  to  speak,  as  it  were,  you  done  me  wrong.  Perhaps  it 
amuses  you — an'  Mac  cert'nly  thinks  so — but — I'm — not — 
looking — for — coin.  I've  cert'nly  staked  you  often  enough, 
if  anyone  should  ast  you,  an'  I  wouldn't  a  done  that,  would 
I,  if  I  hadn't  fell  for  you?" 

"No,  little  one,  no  one  would  accuse  you  of  that,"  he 
returned,  shaking  his  head  in  alcoholic  perspicacity. 

But  her  arms  were  softly  emphasizing  her  plea.  In  fact 
she  gave  him  their  full  opulence,  and  Philip  wondered — if — 
after  all 

"I've  got  money  enough.    Supposin'  I  stake  you  till  you  get 


BEHIND  THE  PICTURE  155 

a  job?  You  can  dance.  Me  an'  you  together,  why,  we'd 
be  a  riot — cabaret  or  big  time — we'd  stop  the  show !" 

"Besides,  dearie,"  she  went  on,  smoothing  the  disordered 
hair,  "don't  kid  yourself  into  thinkin'  that  little  Bright  Eyes, 
who  left  you  flat  at  the  altar,  is  ever  comin'  back  to  youoo- 
ooh.  No,  sir,  never  on  your  tintype !  She's  pretty  an'  " 
(strange  admission  here  for  Carlotta)  "she's  good — probably 
— sort  o'  fell  for  her  myself.  But  she's  all  for  that  sailor 
guy  what's  doin'  the  Robbie  Crooso  stunt.  Gee !  wouldn't  it 
make  anelluva  movie!" 

Catching  sight  of  her  own  dishevelled  condition  in  the 
mirror,  she  jumped  up  to  make  repairs,  first  with  lipstick 
(1911 !  she  was  a  pioneer!)  and  powder,  then  with  his  mili 
tary  brushes,  which,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  she  plied 
with  an  implication  of  intimacy  that  riled  him. 

"Feel  quite  at  home,  don't  you?"  he  jeered  sullenly,  "but 
if  the  governor  comes " 

"I'll  get  the  hook,  don't  I  know  it ! — but  about  Little  Agnes, 
now,"  she  returned  to  his  chair,  "lissen,  dearie, " 

"Though  most  people  think  I'm  nothin'  but  a  nut  dancer, 
I  can  read  'em  like  a  book " 

"Did  you  ever — "  he  interrupted,  only  to  be  cut  short  in 
turn, — 

"Now,  don't  get  off  that  old  wheeze  about  a  chorus  girl's 
readin'  one  once — you  oughta  be  ashamed  of  yourself — I 
subscribe  to  a  circ'lating  lib'r'y —  an'  don't  short  circuit  me 
again,  either."  Then  assuming  the  wisely  guaging  look  of 
one  to  whom  the  human  soul  was  quite  transparent,  she 
explained : 


156  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"I  started  to  tell  you  that  she  won't  never  giv'  him  up. 
She's  one  of  the  forever-after  kind — damn  fools,  too,  for  as 
far  as  the  men  are  concerned,  that  Roomyo  an'  Jooliet  stuff's 
the  bunk — "  she  sawed  the  air,  sidewise,  with  a  gesture  of 
utter  disgust —  "An'  I'd  stack  my  pile  that  that  Mr. 
Roomyoh,  soon  as  he  left  Jooly  lyin  there  stiff  an'  cold, 
lamped  some  other  dame  at  the  exit  an*  giv'  her  the  high 
sign. 

"But  to  get  back  to  this  kiddo, — there's  too  much  smalltown 
about  her — y'know,  blush  all  over  when  anyone  menshuns 
legs,  what  we  most  cert'nly  all  got.  Yep,  she'd  make  nice 
apple  tarts  from  your  farm  out  there,  an'  sweep  the  porch 
clean,  an'  on  Sundays  doll  up  like  a  reg'lar  curly-haired 
baby-doll.  But  she'd  never  do  for  you,  kiddo,  you  gotta  have 
pep  an'  good  rag — why,  all  you  could  do  when  yuh  get  all 
het  up  is  to  play  the  organ  an'  look  at  the  photygraft  album, 
by  Heck!"  Here  she  snapped  her  fingers  and  executed  that 
rustic  shuffle,  by  which  pieces  of  business  her  kind  always 
know  that  beings  from  beyond  their  own  sacred  purlieus 
hold  the  boards. 

"An',  an',"  she  wound  up,  "Philip,  me  bhhoy,  you'd  have 
plenty  of  babies,  oodles  uv  'em — like  rabbits.  You'd  make  a 
swell  father  walkin'  the  floor  with  'em,  wouldn't  you,  now  ?" 

For  further  derision  she  hummed  a  popular  favourite  of 
the  day — "When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rabbit  Rented  a  Harlem 
Flat,"  it  was  called — with  pantomime  of  infant-on-each-arm, 
until  Philip  writhed  and  reached  for  the  flask.  But  Carlotta, 
who  was  surprising  both  herself  and  him  that  night,  snatched 
it  away. 


BEHIND  THE  PICTURE  157 

"You've  had  about  enough  of  that !" 

Again  the  heavy  emphasis  of  soft  arms,  and  he  wavered. 
He  would  go — but  the  broad  stairs  announced  the  approach 
of  someone. 

"It's  the  governor — quick — in  there!" 

The  knob  of  the  door  turned  behind  Carlotta,  and  the 
ceiling  lights  were  snapped  off,  leaving  the  room  in  half 
darkness  as  his  father  entered. 

He  seemed  to  be  concerned  for  his  son,  wanting  to  say 
something — he  didn't  quite  know  what.  He  felt  still  more 
worried  when  he  saw  the  unusual  debris  in  the  tray,  and 
the  flask  which  Phil  had  neglected  to  hide. 

"That  won't  help,  my  boy,  it  never  does.  I'm  sorry  things 
turned  out  so  badly — sorrier  than  I  can  say.  But,  cheer  up, 
Sally '11  come  round  on  time.  The  whole  thing's  so  romantic 
that  it  naturally  appealed  to  her — all  girls  are  that  way." 

"Maybe,"  the  boy  replied,  "but  you're  wrong  about  her — 
she  won't  get  the  chance." 

A  sharp  breeze,  heralding  the  return  of  the  storm,  which 
had  subsided  for  a  while,  blew  through  the  curtains,  knock 
ing  Sally's  picture  from  the  bureau.  Renewed  rumbles 
of  thunder  followed,  and  fitful  spurts  of  lightning. 

In  the  uncertain  atmosphere  of  lamplight,  lightning  flash, 
and  whiskey  haze,  commingled,  through  which  Phil's  brain 
was  none  too  buoyantly  volplaning,  a  picture  on  the  wall 
opposite  held  him  spellbound. 

By  day  it  was  only  a  dingy  oil  in  a  tarnished  frame,  the 
canvas  fissured  by  Time  with  tiny  cracks  like  a  maze  of 
spider  webs.  But  now  it  was  wonderfully  lifelike.  On  a 


158  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

heavy  sea  a  full-rigged  ship  tossed,  under  reefed  topsails 
and  jib,  with  tall  masts  raking  clouds  and  a  ghostly  moon. 
When  the  lightning  flickered  out,  the  red  lanterns  on  her 
rail  glowed,  he  would  have  sworn,  with  a  supernatural  fire. 
It  wasn't  paint  but  flame.  Almost  like  a  phantom  ship,  the 
Flying  Dutchman  of  unholy  memory,  perhaps,  she  seemed 
actually  to  skim  the  waves,  those  devil's  lights  blinking  on 
her  port. 

To  the  bewildered  son  it  was  uncanny,  and  even  the 
prosaic  and  perfectly  sober  father,  though  he  tried  to  dismiss 
it  as  an  illusion,  was  impressed.  And  now  the  wind,  increas 
ing  in  violence,  started  the  sleeping  ghosts  of  the  house. 
The  sheeted  rain  lashed  savagely  at  the  window  panes.  The 
storm  had  returned  in  good  earnest.  A  vivid  flash  stabbed 
the  darkness,  and,  hard  on  the  shaft,  a  series  of  others,  and 
accompanying  reverberations  like  the  ruffling  of  tremendous 
drums  above  the  storm,  in  such  swift  succession  it  was  hard 
to  tell  whether  the  crashes  followed  or  preceded  the  bolts. 

In  the  dazzling  illumination,  the  dimmed  port  lights,  all 
the  tones  of  the  painting,  faded  into  oblivion,  until  it  became 
but  a  framed  bit  of  midnight.  It  was  only  in  the  spaces 
between,  when  the  lamplight  was  not  paled  into  insignificance, 
that  they  could  discern  the  colours  at  all. 

There  came  an  instant's  lull,  as  if  the  warring  forces  of 
Nature  were  gathering  all  their  powers  for  the  spring.  The 
final  onslaught  was  presaged  by  a  strange  ball  of  fire  carom 
ing  around  the  room,  with  a  train  of  sparks  like  the  fiery 
impedimenta  of  a  convict  from  some  subterranean  cell.  Then 
the  whole  room  burst  into  a  white  searing  dawn,  such  as  the 


BEHIND  THE  PICTURE  159 

last  of  all  must  be  when  it  comes,  almost  simultaneously 
with  so  mighty  a  roar  that  it  strangely  sounded  not  at  all 
like  artillery  however  gigantic,  but  rather  the  chorused  hiss 
ing  of  legions  of  lost  souls,  raised  into  the  most  terrible  of 
fortissimos.  When  it  finally  rolled  away,  in  an  almost  equally 
inspiring  diminuendo,  they  were  unscathed,  but  the  giant  elm 
in  the  garden  below,  under  which  Carlotta  had  stood,  was 
split  as  cleanly  as  a  piece  of  cordwood  halved  by  a  sharp 
axe.  The  scream  from  the  closet  had  passed  unheard — 
one  little  note  in  the  whole  pandemonium. 

The  electric  reading  lamp  had  gone  out,  and  Philip 
stumbled  over  something  on  the  floor.  The  bulb  brightened 
again.  It  was  the  picture.  The  worn  moulding  giving 
way,  it  had  fallen  unnoticed  in  the  din  of  the  tempest. 

Now  it  lay  back  uppermost,  and  the  boy  saw  the  irregular 
lines  of  a  crude  chart,  swiftly  outlined  in  faded  blues  and 
yellows  by  a  painter's  brush.  He  held  it  to  the  lamp. 

"What  does  it  mean,  this  spooky  ship,  and  the  crazy 
chart?" 

His  father,  apparently  not  hearing  him  at  all,  was  ab 
stractedly  musing.  But  the  boy,  anxious  for  distraction,  and 
scenting  a  mystery,  perhaps  even  a  hint  of  hidden,  other- 
world  treasure,  demanded — wilfully  as  always: 

"What  is  it?    Shoot,  guv'nor." 

"Oh,  it's  just  a  fool  yarn,  not  worth  repeating — the  sort 
you  can  hear  in  any  place  where  there  are  ships  and  drunken 
old  sailors — and  fools  to  listen  to  'em." 

"But  you  swallowed  it  yourself  once,  didn't  you?" 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.    Anyway,  the  sooner  one  for- 


i6o 


THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 


gets  such  wild  yarns  and  gets  down  to  practical  business,  the 
better." 


Philip,  thinking  this  presaged  something  rather  ominous, 
very  probably  the  horrible  suggestion  of  some  job  for  his 
princely  self,  and  strangely  forgetting  the  very  living 
skeleton  now  ensconced  in  the  closet,  tried  to  wheedle  him. 


BEHIND  THE  PICTURE  161 

"Come,  dad,"  he  urged. 

"All  right,  but  forget  it  when  I'm  through. 

"It  goes  back  forty  years,  Philip.  I  can  remember  it  as 
clearly  as  if  it  took  place  yesterday.  Your  grandfather  was 
sitting  on  the  porch  here,  reading  The  Log,  the  same  old 
Log,  at  the  usual  hour — he  was  always  on  schedule  to  the 
split  second  in  everything  he  did — when  some  old  tramp, 
half  seaman,  half  derelict,  staggered  up  the  path. 

"He  was  ragged  and  half-starved,  I  guess,  and  under  his 
arm  he  carried  that  painting,  wrapped  in  oilskin.  He 
gripped  it  hard,  as  if  it  were  his  own  soul  he  was  carrying, 
and  sometimes  I  thought  it  was.  He  reached  the  steps  and 
almost  fell  at  your  grandfather's  feet.  Of  course,  we  took 
him  in,  fed  him,  and  put  him  up  for  the  night.  Later  he 
seemed  to  feel  better,  and  told  us  an  odd  sort  of  story  of 
some  island  in  the  French  West  Indies,  haunted,  and  entirely 
deserted  because  the  long  line  of  owners  had  had  so  many 
misfortunes  there, — volcanoes,  epidemics,  assassinations — 
everything.  There  was  also  some  preternatural  quality  about 
the  place.  That's  not  worth  repeating,  but  he  did  give  some 
practical  reasons  for  its  condition;  said  it  was  mixed  up  in 
litigation  in  the  courts — and  French  colonial  courts  are  bad 
enough — the  titles  were  all  snarled  up  or  something.  But 
the  important  thing  to  the  old  fellow  was  the  treasure  that 
he  swore  was  there. 

"It  was  a  weird  mixture  anyway  you  look  at  it,  but,  though 
as  a  boy  I  wanted  to  believe  every  word  of  it,  even  then  I 
had  the  sense  to  call  it  a  fairy  tale. — Which  it  was — "  he 
interjected  half  cautiously,  torn  between  his  desire  to  "get 


162  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

this  out  of  his  system,"  as  Phil  mentally  put  it,  and  his 
reluctance  to  throw  any  more  crazy  ideas  into  the  boy's  head. 

"However,  the  old  boy  was  so  earnest,  and  he  showed  us 
this  painting  with  the  chart  on  the  back — my,  how  it  has 
faded! — that  I  got  to  believe  him,  and  I  think  Father  half 
believed  him,  too — that  night — in  the  dark.  But  in  the  light 
of  the  morning  after,  when  the  fellow  got  down  to  brass 
tacks  and  asked  him  to  fit  out  a  ship,  why,  that  was  another 
story.  Your  grandfather  said  it  was  a  'good  enough  yarn  to 
spin  when  there  was  no  work  to  be  done  but  puffin'  on  your 
evening  pipe,  but  to  fit  out  a  ship  and  spend  a  year  cruising 
and  digging  for  fairy  gold,  when  there  were  genuine  cargoes 
waiting  on  the  wharves  of  a  thousand  ports,  why,  that  was 
something  else  again.' 

"Apparently,  the  old  man  had  tried  every  shipowner  in 
New  England.  They  all  listened,  but  no  one  would  give 
him  even  a  catboat,  let  alone  the  schooner  he  wanted. 

"When  he  reached  us  he  was  in  pretty  bad  shape  from 
exposure,  and  we  were  his  last  chance,  I  guess.  We  kept 
him,  of  course.  It  would  have  been  worse  than  cruel  to  turn 
him  out.  Anyway,  one  night  about  a  week  later,  it  was 
mighty  warm — the  sort  of  oppressive  heat  that  tells  a  heavy 
electrical  storm  coming.  Later  it  blew  great  guns  and  a  storm 
broke — just  like  tonight.  You  remember  that  stump  which 
your  mother  always  kept  covered  with  flowers,  near  the  elm 
that  was  struck  a  few  moments  ago?  Well,  that  was  split 
the  same  way  that  night.  Just  before  the  crash,  when  the 
storm  was  at  its  worst,  we  heard  cries  from  the  sailor's  room. 
We  could  hear  them  even  above  the  roar  of  the  wind.  We 


BEHIND  THE  PICTURE  163 

ran  to  the  room.  He  was  dying,  but  just  before  he  passed 
away,  he  held  out  this  canvas  which  he  always  kept  by  his 
pillow. 

'  'You  had  faith,  boy,  take  it,'  he  called  to  me,  then, 
between  the  hacks  of  his  death  rattle,  managed  somehow  to 
gasp  out, —  'get  the  gold.' 

"I  was  only  a  youngster,  and  I  was  terribly  frightened,  as 
you  may  imagine,  for  he  choked  on  that  last  word, — 'gold.' 
It  was  just  at  that  very  second  that  the  bolt  came,  the  one 
that  struck  that  other  tree. 

"Afterwards,  Father  had  the  painting  framed  and  hung 
up  here.  And,  of  course,  I  forgot  it  like  the  fool  yarn  it 
was —  Hello!"  he  paused  and  looked  startled;  "what's  that?" 

"Where?    I  didn't  see  anything." 

Now,  the  older  man  was  sure  he  had  seen  a  figure  steal 
down  the  hallway  past  the  door,  but  he  dismissed  the  idea 
as  some  vagary.  It  was  altogther  too  wild  a  night,  and  in 
comprehensible  things  were  happening  everywhere — things 
which  could  be  sensibly  explained,  of  course,  he  assured 
himself. 

But  the  boy  was  leaning  forward  to  grasp  his  father's 
hands. 

"Father,"  he  pled,  "let  me  take  the  Ailccn  and  make  a  try 
for  it— 

"No,  Phil,  we  won't  go  chasing  rainbows.  Your  grand 
father  was  right  about  it.  No  good  would  come  of  such  a 
fool  expedition. 

"Besides,"  he  went  on — more  crisply  now,  "I've  had  a 
letter  today.  I  didn't  tell  you  about  it  before,  because  I 


164  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

thought  you  had  had  enough  trouble  for  one  day.  But  the 
Registrar  has  written  me  some  news  I  wouldn't  say  pleased 
me  down  to  the  ground.  Says  he  wrote  another  letter, 
which  I  never  got." 

At  this  Philip  flinched  a  little,  but  even  now  the  father 
trusted  him  too  much  to  suspect  the  extent  of  his  turpitude. 

"I  want  you  to  come  into  the  office  and  settle  down,"  the 
old  man  explained,  "there'll  be  a  fine  business  for  you  when 
I  die,  my  boy.  But  first  we'd  better  get  this  picture  out  of 
the  way.  It's  caused  enough  trouble  already." 

He  picked  up  the  painting  and  started  for  the  closet. 

"Let's  put  it  in  the  attic,  father.  The  closet's  locked  and 
I've  lost  the  key." 

But  something  had  attracted  the  other's  eye, — a  bit  of 
wine-coloured  skirt  caught  in  that  door. 

Now  after  a  very  bad  half  hour,  Carlotta  was  almost 
welcoming  release,  even  by  an  enemy.  It  was  a  fairly  large 
and  airy  closet,  but,  nevertheless,  she  had  sweated  and 
trembled  at  the  possibility  of  discovery,  as  well  as  the  violence 
of  the  storm  and  the  uncanny  incident  of  the  painting. 
Nerve  in  plenty  she  might  have  for  her  business  and  the 
ordinary  exigencies  of  Broadway,  but  her  old  friend,  the 
property  man,  had  no  such  powerful  "props"  in  his  posses 
sion.  As  for  the  real  demonstrations  of  the  elements,  they 
aways  seemed  so  far  above  a  sky-scraper,  so  futile  to  one 
behind  steel  and  concrete.  But  in  this  creaking  and  groaning 
"hangout,"  why,  as  the  old  gentleman  had  just  said,  "this 
was  something  else  again."  And  that  yarn  which  she 
couldn't  help  hearing  against  her  inhibitions,  not  of  taste 


BEHIND  THE  PICTURE  165 

but  caution,  was  the  most  fearful  of  all.  Bit  by  bit  the  chain 
begun  by  that  medium  was  being  forged.  The  ghost  ship 
was  but  another  link  in  the  chain!  The  long  journey  ap 
proached  ominously,  perilously,  near. 

The  older  man  snapped  on  the  ceiling  lights  and  looked  at 
the  betraying  evidence  in  the  crack  of  the  door.  In  spite  of 
his  paternal  trust,  he  could  add  the  two  of  the  girl's  call  and 
her  telephone  message,  the  two  of  the  Registrar's  letter  and 
that  bit  of  wine-coloured  cloth.  They  totalled  a  perfect  in 
criminating  four. 

"Give  me  that  key !" 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  deliver  it.  It  turned,  and 
Mr.  Huntington  confronted  Carlotta.  Now  that  he  enjoyed 
a  clearer  view  of  the  visitor,  it  didn't  take  any  very  acute 
observation  to  realize  that  she  was  no  Salthaven  product. 
She  was  so  plainly  an  errant,  brightly-coloured  bulb,  straying 
far  from  its  proper  setting  on  the  "Great  White  Way,"  and 
with  all  the  allurement  thereof.  But  this  stoutish  little 
beauty,  with  her  jet  earrings,  carmine  flushes,  snapping  eyes, 
and  pose  and  walk  that  were  always  on  the  point  of  swaying 
into  ragtime,  held  no  attraction  for  a  perfectly  respectable 
Salthaven  father. 

"Well,  young  man,"  he  snorted  in  disgust,  "so  this  is  the 
indorsement  of  the  Registrar's  letter." 

He  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  called  the  cook, 
who  came,  breathless  with  excitement  at  the  urgency  of  the 
summons. 

"Show  this  young  woman  to  the  door,  the  kitchen  door, 
I  mean." 


i66  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Powder  and  paint,  and  her  clever  selection  of  a  modiste, 
had  given  Carlotta  a  certain  sort  of  flashy  smartness,  but 
after  all,  under  the  skin  she  was  "a  tough  little  kyke,"  as 
she  had  often  been  called.  But  not  the  whole  of  her.  She 
really  loved  the  boy  in  her  way,  or  wanted  him — which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  Ordinarily  she  would  have 
reverted  to  type,  and  had  a  most  distinct  "mad  on,"  as  they 
used  to  say  in  the  old  days  of  her  childhood,  when  she  bit 
and  fought  and  scratched  her  way  on  the  Street  of  Pushcarts 
and  Old  Clothes ;  and  an  impudent  retort,  such  as  "you  poor 
old  boob"  (it  was  that  in  that  year)  would  have  issued  from 
her  lips,  and  she  might  also  have  jabbed  a  hatpin  into  the 
screaming  cook.  Because  she  really  did  care  in  her  way  for 
the  boy,  and  did  not  want  to  further  antagonize  the  father, 
she  did  none  of  these  things.  She  simply  said —  "You've  got 
me  wrong,  Mr.  Huntington,  you'll  find  out  some  day,"  then 
"bye,  bye,  Phil,"  and  walked  a  little  stagily,  but  with  at 
least  an  approach  to  dignity,  out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs, 
and  out  of  the  front  door.  She  refrained  even  from  banging 
that. 

Just  as  it  closed,  every  light  in  the  house  went  out. 

In  the  darkness,  Philip  called— 

"Dad,  that  arm !" 

The  lights  went  up,  and  there  was  no  trace  of  any 
one,  ghost,  demon,  or  human  soul.  But  they  heard  a 
sound  as  of  a  displaced  shingle,  and  running  to  the  win 
dow,  saw  ten  fingers  curled  around  the  gutter,  as  though 
the  owner  of  them  were  suspended  below,  calculating 
the  drop. 


BEHIND  THE  PICTURE  167 

Philip  hurled  some  object  at  them — the  bottle  crashed, 
slicing  the  fingers — then  they  disappeared. 

Returning  into  the  room  they  looked  for  the  painting,  but 
it,  too,  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  AILEEN 

So,  by  haphazard  chance,  or  trick  of  Fate,  were  gathered 
in  the  port  the  motley  crews  that  were  to  embark  on  that 
mad  voyage,  whose  perils  and  strange  adventures  your 
historian  will  try  to  recount,  from  his  own  recollections, 
pieced  out  by  the  records  and  the  most  trustworthy  tales  of 
the  survivors.  But  one  of  the  participants  was  still  missing. 

He  was — on  the  Tuesday  after  the  wedding — conversing 
with  none  other  than  Queer  Hat,  the  painter  who  had  walked 
from  the  wharf  so  abruptly  that  morning  of  Ben's  return, 
and  who  was  destined  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
Sally's  life  except,  perhaps,  his  propelling  of  the  Unknown 
into  it. 

He — that  is  Queer  Hat — was  still  daubing  away,  erasing 
and  retouching  his  portrait,  presumably  for  the  Academy. 
For  a  fellow  of  only  moderate  talent,  it  wasn't  a  half  bad 
portrait  at  that.  Being  one  of  those  chaps  who  never  can 
allow  an  opinion  or  observation  to  go  unexpressed,  he  was 
haranguing  the  stranger,  a  friend  of  a  few  months,  on  the 
virtues  of  the  portrait  or  its  fair  original. 

"It's  the  damndest  thing  to  get — begging  your  pardon" 
(he  bowed  to  the  canvas),  "I  mean  that  compounding  of 

1 68 


THE  AILEEN  169 

common  sense  and  the  spirituelle" — here  he  turned  half- 
hopefully  to  his  auditor — "Or  do  you  get  it?" 

But  the  other,  who  could  let  his  reflections  travel  their 
designed  course  without  delivering  them  up  to  chance  com 
panions,  gazed  at  the  picture  in  silence.  He  was  presumably 
Latin,  but  not  at  all  Gascon.  His  features,  delicately 
moulded,  were  saved  by  the  clean-cut  conformation  of  jaw 
and  skull.  When  he  moved  it  was  alertly,  but  out  of  action 
he  seemed  to  possess  a  repose  with  which  the  poorly  in 
formed  rarely  credit  his  race.  The  eye,  too,  was  steady 
but  sad.  There  was  about  him  the  air,  bravely  and  gracefully 
borne,  of  one  who  had  always  played  in  hard  luck,  whose 
ancestors  had  bequeathed  him,  possibly  an  honoured  name, 
most  certainly  a  heritage  of  poverty,  and  with  it,  of  fatalism. 

A  slight,  but  not  disfiguring,  scar  on  his  cheek,  and  a  touch 
of  ribbon  in  his  lapel,  suggested  some  service  in  the  Foreign 
Legion. 

But  Queer  Hat  was  pleasantly  meandering  on, 

"The  figure,  too,  balks  me.  Somehow,  simplicity  seems  to 
be  the  most  complex  thing  in  the  world,  the  most  difficult 
thing  to  arrive  at.  There's  spring — lilt — poise " 

The  Legionnaire  now  broke  his  silence 

"Elan,  you  mean — body  and  spirit  pointe  du  pied — on  tip 
toe,  you  would  say." 

"By  Jove,  that's  good — on  tiptoe!"  the  other  exclaimed, 
but  the  Frenchman  went  on  as  if  he  hadn't  heard  him . 

"One  has  the  impression  of  having  seen  her,  somewhere 
before." 

"You're  not  getting  that  American  habit!"  the  painter  not 


1 70  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

unpleasantly  jeered,  "Haven't  I  met  you  somewhere  before ! 
Ye  Gods !" 

Only  half  conscious  of  his  meaning,  the  other  con 
tinued, 

"No,  it's  not  that,  it  is  only  that  beauty " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  the  painter  replied,  taking  the 
explanation  out  of  his  mouth,  "it's  only  that  that  elusive 
thing  is  so  eternal,  so  right,  that  when  you  meet  up  with  it 
in  any  form,  you'd  swear  you'd  known  it — or  her  (indicating 
the  picture)  always,  and  you  have,  anyway,  in  your  dreams." 

But  the  Legionnaire  was  examining  the  background  with 
its  masts,  and  cordage,  and  wash  of  blue  water.  "There  is 
not  so  much  colour,  but  it  is  very  like  the  Breton  coast.  But 
perhaps  it  is  only  because  I  am  homesick." 

"Yep,  quaint  place — called  Salthaven,"  the  painter  said 
between  puffs. 

"Salthaven — in  what  department,  inon  ami!"' 

"Department!  Oh,  I  see — in  what  state — Massa 
chusetts — "  then  he  looked  up  at  him  inquiringly.  "You're 
not  thinking  of  trekking  there,  you  mad  Gaul,  are  you?" 

"I  tire  of  your  city,  fren'  Tony,  too  much  fever " 

"And  that  from  you !" 

"It  is  a  different  sort  of  fever.  Our  kind  is  that  of  the 
sea,  of  the  winds,  and  is  governed  by  some  law  of  Nature. 
There  is  peace  even  in  the  unrest,  the  wandering.  But  here 
in  your  nervous  city,  it  is  the  spasm  of  the — what  is  your 
happy  idiom — the  capon  decapitated?  And,  perhaps,  I  am 
homesick,  though  a  man  might  travel  far  even  for  a  pair  of 
eyes  he  had  never  seen  away  from  the  canvas.  I  did  once, 


THE  AILEEN  171 

my  fren',  for  a  miniature — as  far  as  Bokhara — and  there 
is  so  much  more  there."  He  bowed  to  the  canvas,  then 
stood  up.  "Can  you  unravel  me  your  railroads?" 

"That's  easy.  Here's  a  time-table.  The  New  Haven  will 
take  you  there,  if  it  chances  to  be  its  wreckless  day." 

"Wrecks  are  always  my  good  fortune,  my  bad  that  always 
I  survive  them." 

He  started  for  the  door,  but  was  called  back  by  his  jovial 
friend. 

"Hey  there,  now  get  this  straight, — from  Bunker  Wharf 
you  turn  to  Water  Street,  then  two  turns  to  the  right  and 
three  to  the  left,  up  the  hill.  House,  French  windows — 
whitewashed  trees,  walk,  shells,  whitewashed  everything — 
skiff  groaning  with  flowers — and — name's  Sally." 

The  other  looked  at  him  with  a  twinkle  of  amusement. 

"Crude,  as  you  say  in  your  expressive  American,  but  au 
revoir." 

As  he  had  judged  from  the  picture  and  his  friend's 
portrayal,  the  town  was  like  the  other  his  boyhood  re 
membered,  with  roofs  sloping  to  the  harbour,  but  neither  so 
gayly  coloured  nor  sheltering  so  joyous  a  life.  And  this  sky 
was  blue  yet  not  quite  so  blue,  if  he  trusted  his  fancy. 

Other  pictures  came  back  to  him, — his  proud  testy  old 
granduncle,  tall  and  silver-haired,  hawk-eyed  and  hawk- 
nosed,  and  Bourbon  to  the  backbone,  who,  ever  since  the  last 
Napoleon,  had  locked  himself  in  his  chateau  and  gardens, 
sternly  refusing  to  recognize  the  new  order  by  even  so  much 
as  mingling  with  it,  while  his  estate  dwindled  to  a  third  of  its 
former  glory  and,  what  was  more  to  the  point,  to  even  less 


172  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

of  its  liquidability ;  of  his  beautiful  mother  whose  spirit  was 
as  determined  as  that  of  the  old  Royalist,  and  whose  mar 
riage  to  the  rising  young  councillor  from  the  North  had 
broken  the  old  man's  heart,  though  it  had  proved  longer  in 
the  breaking  than  one  would  have  supposed ;  and  so  on  down 
through  the  long  sequence  of  his  ill-lucked  wanderings  since. 

The  visions  passed,  and,  though  he  was  not  at  all  given  to 
vulgar  curiosity,  it  was  quite  natural  to  follow  those  direc 
tions  so  chaffingly  tossed  as  a  farewell  by  Queer  Hat. 

He  traversed  the  two  turns  to  the  right,  and  three  to  the 
left,  up  the  hill,  as  verbally  diagrammed,  found  the  white 
wash,  the  old  skiff,  and  its  cargo  of  petunias.  However, 
over  its  creaking  gate  loomed  something  not  in  the  pro 
spectus, — a  female  most  rigidly  boned  and  coiffured,  and 
most  precisely  pursed  of  mouth. 

A  few  cues  he  caught  from  her  conversation, — "Sally," 
and  "kidnapped," — "or  run  away  to  sea,"  then  a  more 
ominous  "judgment  of  God."  So  he  made  his  way  to  the 
beach. 

The  sky  was  overcast,  but  a  half-mile  away  a  fire  was 
burning.  He  followed  its  pennons,  to  discover  a  group 
around  it, — a  tall  fellow,  pallid  of  feature,  and  dressed  in 
contrasting  black,  of  the  sort,  the  observing  stranger  decided, 
an  American  would  at  once  label  "smooth";  a  trio  of  rascals 
that  most  certainly  deserved  the  epithet  "precious" ;  a 
smartly-dressed  youth,  a  little  the  worse  for  whiskey — and  a 
girl. 

Pictorially  she  would  have  made  an  excellent  Carmen,  he 
thought,  with  her  swarthiness  set  in  a  crimson  dress,  but  she 


THE  AILEEN  173 

seemed  ill  at  ease,  every  once  in  a  while  casting  a  troubled 
glance  at  the  sea. 

Not  being  given  to  eaves-dropping  any  more  than  to  other 
forms  of  inordinate  curiosity,  he  would  have  passed  on,  but 
the  object  which  they  were  studying  caught  his  attention. 
It  was  an  old  oil-painting.  Strange,  he  thought,  when  that 
was  just  the  thing  that  had  sent  him  here.  The  flames  leaped 
up  a  little  and  even  at  that  distance  he  thought  the  painting 
familiar,  though  all  he  could  detect  was  that  it  was  a  marine. 

"Curious,"  he  said,  then  "impossible,"  but  he  felt  in  his 
pockets  as  if  searching  for  some  object  that  was  precious  and 
so  always  carefully  carried.  He  found  it, — a  yellow  paper, 
a  rough  chart  of  some  sort,  very  old,  and  yellow,  and 
crinkled.  The  outlines  upon  it  strangely  resembled  the  lines 
on  the  back  of  the  painting  on  the  Huntington  wall. 

He  hid  in  the  lee  of  a  rock  close  at  hand,  again  catching 
enough  of  this  conversation  to  piece  out  a  suspicious,  if  not 
absolutely  incriminating,  case. 

The  callow  youth  was  talking  or  rather  trying  to 

"You  go  to  Hell,  Mac" — Mac — something — the  listener 
couldn't  be  sure —  "Th'  ol'  man  don't  give  me  Aileen,  I  take 
her — just  like  that — you  shign  up  crew  here — mos'  dish- 
tingshd  crew" —  he  drunkenly  waved  his  arms  to  take  in  the 
group —  "an'  we'll  sail  away  to  lil  ole  islan' — 'n  spade  up  iron 
men  in  dies' — have  funny  lil  fairy  tale  all  'r  own." 

And  now  the  girl  was  talking,  scarcely  in  the  musical  tones 
of  the  Carmen  she  resembled,  though  it  is  conceivable  that 
the  Bizet  lady  could  have  acquired  the  same  raucous  voice 
and  gesture,  had  she  been  transplanted  to  this  catarrhal  belt. 


174  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Who  d'ya  think  yuh  are,  pulling  this  Robinson  Croosoe 
stuff?  It'd  go  big  at  Miner's,  but  as  a  real  honest-to-Gawd 
journey,  it  doesn't  make  a  hit  with  me." 

She  seconded  this  declaration  with  the  queer  twitchings  of 
shoulder  and  hip,  which,  the  stranger  had  observed,  were  the 
heart  and  soul  of  American  dancing.  A  queer  lot,  but  as 
amusing  to  him,  in  pantomime  and  patois,  as  a  band  of 
rioters  in  a  Nice  carnival  to  a  Yankee  tourist.  It  all  depends 
on  the  point  of  view.  The  unfamiliar  is  always  refreshing. 

The  leader  admonished  her  in  the  same  incomprehensible 
dialect : 

"It'll  do  you  good,  Carlotta,  to  see  some  foam  besides  that 
you  blow  off  glasses." 

To  this,  the  exotic  but  amusing  Carmen  responded  that 
"steppin'  on  Broadway  suited  her  better'n  rollin'  on  the 
deep,"  also  that  "she  didn't  speak  no  language  like  the  wild 
sea  waves." 

There  was  more  argument,  then  her  further  declara 
tion  : 

"I  know,  Mac,  but  there  are  some  things  I  won't  pull,  an' 
shopliftin'  a  young  steam  yacht  is  one  of  'em." 

The  Legionnaire  was  decidedly  bewildered.  Such  sentences 
had  never  appeared  in  any  conversational  grammar  he  had 
studied,  yet  he  had  been  told  that  he  spoke  perfect  English. 
He  began  to  think  that  his  professors  had  been  badly  chosen, 
or  else  that  the  only  way  to  study  any  tongue  was  in  the 
natural  habitat.  But  the  next  demand  from  the  leader  was 
more  to  the  point. 

"Here,  let's  look  at  that  chart." 


THE  AILEEN  175 

But  the  alcoholic  youth  wouldn't  deliver  the  painting. 

"You  shtole  this  once,  MacAllshter,  but  you  don't  get  'way 
with  it  again." 

At  this  the  girl  raised  her  tousled  black  head  from  her 
voluptuous  elbows,  and  broke  in. 

"Say,  Mac,  what  did  yuh  try  that  fool  stunt  for?  Second 
story  worker — huh!  I  thought  yuh  had  more  sense.  Yuh 
mighta  got  filled  with  lead."  She  paused  and  surveyed  him 
slyly,  almost  with  a  challenge — "I  suppose  yuh  thought  I'd 
double  cross  yuh,  didn't  yuh?" 

"Women  have  been  known  to  change  their  minds,"  he 
responded. 

"Yuh  said  it,  Mac,  I  nearly  did." 

"Well,  Hermione,  little  flower  of  the  slums,  pure  lily 
springing  from  the  mire" — the  ironic  epithets  fell  from  his 
bloodless  lips  with  a  delicate,  almost  melodious,  lilt — "in 
changing  yours,  see  that  you  don't  short-change  yourself." 

Meanwhile,  during  these  retorts  most  courteous,  the  youth, 
replenished  from  the  flask  with  which  the  man  called  Mac- 
Allister  was  maliciously  plying  him,  gazed  down  at  the 
painting. 

"Funny  lil  ol'  islan',  ain't  it  now  ?"  He  kept  repeating  the 
idea  as  if  it  vastly  amused  him,  "but  whaz  zis?"  his  tongue 
failing  him  a  little  more,  "muz  be  lil  tent." 

"That's  a  mountain,  son,"  the  leader  informed  him. 

"Mountain!"  the  boy  echoed  it  vaguely  as  most  astounding 
information,  "but  whaz  zis,  tthhen  ?  Ol'  Doc  Sawbones —  how 
are  you,  ol'  top?"  (bowing  gravely  to  the  skull  and  cross- 
bones)  "an'  that  mus  be  ad  for  Turkssh  cigaret." 


176  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"They're  moons,  you  poor "  (he  couldn't  catch  this 

amazing  appellative!)  "seven  of  'em." 

Now  this  discovery  of  Carlotta's  came  near  to  unravelling 
the  conversation,  which  the  stranger  mistakenly  thought  was 
extraordinarily  uncommon.  He  decided  that,  in  spite  of  his 
faulty  knowledge  of  the  purest  Americanese,  he  could  now 
understand  the  cryptic  allusion  to  the  "yacht,"  though  why 
it  should  be  called  "young"  was  beyond  him  to  fathom. 

But  the  girl  was  talking  on.  Picturesque — but  that  voice — 
Diable! 

"An'  those  marks  in  the  corner — like  chicken  trac's  an* 
letters?" 

"That's  the  key  to  it,"  MacAllister  deigned  to  explain. 
"And  damned  if  I  don't  believe  it's  that  island  I  heard  of 
down  in  Kingston.  If  it  is — by  the  beard  of  your  alleged 
ancestor,  Carlotta,  it  means  treasure !" 

"You  mean,"  she  said,  "that  that  means  red  cash?" 

"It's  a  fifty-fifty  chance,  you  doubting  Thomasina." 

"Well,  all  right,  but  all  I  gotta  say  is, — if  yuh  can  read 
money  in  those  Shriner  marks,  I  can  bring  yuh  a  stack  uv 
Yiddish  newspapers  that'll  cash  in  for  millions."  She  turned 
away.  "Gawd !  It — "  the  pronoun  referring  to  none  other 
than  her  mentor,  "IT,"  she  repeated,  "wants  me  to  sign  that 
fool  contrac' !" 

The  further  dialogue  that  now  ensued  between  the  three 
huskies,  who  had  been  lying  motionless  save  for  their 
masticating  lips,  was  also  illuminating. 

The  nearest,  a  bent  old  fellow,  stood  up,  the  flames  leaping 
higher  in  the  wind  and  revealing  the  matted  whiskers  which 


THE  AILEEN  177 

completely  encircled  his  jaws.  The  stranger  couldn't  see 
the  colour  of  his  eyes,  but  they  looked  cunning  enough,  even 
at  that  distance. 

Between  pauses  for  salivary  punctuation,  he  inquired: 

"Now  atter  you  gents  has  settled  this  among  yerselves, 
supposin'  ye  let  us  sit  in.  To  get  down  to  cases,  if  I  might 
ax  ye,  what  might  be  the  compensation  f  er  all  this  risk  to  our 
-  souls?" 

The  explanation  of  the  leader  was  now  inaudible,  but  it 
didn't  satisfy  the  second,  a  burly  chap  with  a  pugilist's 
crouch  and  build,  and  a  frightful  scar,  which  the  firelight 
revealed,  forking  across  his  flat,  challenging  features. 

"We  gotta  split  better'n  that,"  he  growled  surlily. 

"But  Mr.  Huntington  owns  the  boat,  I'm  promoting  the 
job.  You  three  can  spilt  a  third  three  ways,  if  you  know 
what  that  means." 

"You  mean  he  gets  a  third,  you  get  a  third,  and  we  divvy 
what's  left?" 

And  the  gesture  of  his  thumb,  as  he  indicated  the  spoils 
men,  reminded  the  spectator  of  some  sign  of  the  vendetta. 

"You're  a  lightning  calculator,  Pete,  but  you  don't  invest 
any  capital  or  brains,  you  see." 

"Mebbe,  but  you  sail  without  us,  then,  hey  Swedie?" 

The  last  one  addressed,  the  bullet-headed  roustabout  in  the 
sleeveless  red  undershirt,  with  enormous  biceps  and  a  close- 
cropped  head,  merely  returned  his  usual  "Ay  tank  so,"  and  lay 
down  on  the  sands  as  if  indifferent  to,  or  confident  of,  the 
outcome. 

The  man  called  MacAllister  apparently  yielded  the  point, 


1 78  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

probably  with  his  usual  mental  reservations,  for  even  the 
lone  spectator  observed, — "I  wouldn't  give  much  for  your 
share,  Monsieur  Pete." 

Then,  stamping  out  the  fire,  the  six  trudged  over  the 
sand  to  the  East,  the  girl  dragging  behind  in  the  torment 
of  fear  and  indecision,  while  the  youth  still  informed  the 
night,  over  and  over  again,  that  it  was  "a  funny  lil  ol'  islan'." 

Shortly  after,  the  Frenchman  hurried  to  the  hotel,  packed 
his  bag,  and  took  the  creaky  bus  to  the  station,  much  earlier 
than  he  had  expected. 

Meantime  the  six,  after  a  suitable  refreshment  at  Tom 
Grogan's,  resumed  their  journey,  past  the  wharves  and 
schooners,  the  sail-lofts  and  chandleries,  to  a  dock  clear  at 
the  other  end  of  the  waterfront. 

Through  a  rift  in  the  clouds,  the  moon  shone  on  the 
Ailcen,  riding  at  anchor  in  all  her  trim  beauty,  a  little  way 
out  in  the  harbour. 

Alongside  the  dock  lay  a  little  gasoline  launch,  with  a 
figure  in  the  cockpit,  working  over  the  engine.  To  Mac- 
Allister's  question  the  man  replied, — "All  set,  cap,"  and  the 
five  stepped  in  the  launch,  the  girl  shrinking  back  as  though 
it  were  a  maelstrom  she  was  about  to  enter. 

"None  of  your  sulks,  Carlotta,"  ordered  MacAllister, 
"come,  in  with  you." 

Then  it  was  that  Carlotta  tried  what  was  always  her  last 
resort,  a  still  prettier  bit  of  temperament,  that  luxury  of  all 
stars,  than  any  she  had  ever  conceived  in  more  familiar 
haunts. 

"Phil,"  she  shrieked,  grabbing  the  youth  s  arm,  "yuh  know 


THE  A1LEEN  179 

I  been  true  to  yuh  an'  staked  yuh  an'  stood  for  your  leaving 
me  flat  an'  everything.  Before  Gawd,  I  ask  yuh  not  to 
go. — It  means  death — do  yuh  hear — death."  And  there  was 
a  sincerity  in  that  last  huskily  whispered  word  that  seemed 
to  show  more  genuine  fear  than  any  desire  for  mere 
histrionic  effect. 

She  actually  cried  (it  was  hard  work  for  Carlotta,  the 
weeping  being  rather  expressed  in  shrieks  and  moans  than 
salty  tears),  then  ran  the  whole  gamut  of  wringing  of  hands, 
and  stamping,  and  kicking,  until  her  arms  were  seized  from 
behind,  and  across  her  vociferous  lips  was  thrust  a  hand  that 
was  viselike  for  all  its  alabaster  finish. 

His  watch  came  out. 

"I'll  give  you  just  one  minute,  sixty  seconds — d'y'  hear? 
to  make  up  your  mind — once  and  for  all." 

She  watched  the  hands  of  the  stopwatch  ticking  away,  as 
if  the  little  black  arrow  marked  her  own  swift  race  into  the 
jaws  of  annihilation. 

Phil  was  standing  up  in  the  boat,  or  rather  trying  to. 

"Come  on,  be  a  shport,  Carlotta." 

Then  he  drunkenly  fell  athwart  the  gunwale,  to  be  hauled 
in  by  the  slack  of  the  trousers,  a  ridiculous  figure. 

"All  right,  I  know  when  I'm  beaten,"  the  girl  admitted 
between  the  slightly  relaxed  fingers,  and  then  as  she  stepped 
in  the  boat,  her  short  skirts  unnecessarily  raised  in  abject 
apprehension  of  this  alarming  new  means  of  locomotion, 
she  muttered, — "But  Gawd  help  that  medyum  if  I  ever  get 
these  claws  on  her." 

The  moon  shone  out  gloriously  now,  in  a  golden  and  most 


i8o  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

engaging  innocence,  as  she  seems  best  to  do  when  foul  deeds 
are  afoot,  and  the  freshening  wind  brought  the  sound  of 
church  bells  from  off  shore.  At  the  ninth  peal,  the  little 
launch  with  its  self-important  "put,  put,"  headed  for  the 
yacht.  They  hove  alongside,  Phil  hailing  the  solitary  watch 
a  trifle  pugnaciously.  A  head  appeared  over  the  taffrail,  as 
if  ready  for  resistance.  But  recognizing  the  young  son  of 
the  owner,  the  sailor  let  down  the  ladder,  and  the  six 
adventurers  climbed  aboard. 

Hearing  voices  on  deck,  the  old  engineer  came  above.  He 
touched  his  cap  to  Phil,  but  this  futile  deference  was  all 
that  he  showed  him,  and  the  boy,  in  his  nervousness  to  be  off, 
commanded  a  little  too  brusquely: 

"Get  up  shteam  at  once,  Stephens!" 

The  latter  was  stubborn  and  did  not  budge  from  the 
companion  way. 

"Your  father  hasn't  given  his  orders,  sir,"  he  said,  as  if 
that  settled  it. 

"Look  here,  old  boy,  you  do  as  I  tell  you  or  you'll  be 
fired,"  stormed  the  prince  chap  with  alcoholic  ugliness. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Philip,  but  I  only  take  orders  from  your 
father." 

At  a  sign  from  MacAllister,  Pushbutton  Pete  and  the 
Pink  Swede  ranged  themselves  on  either  side  of  the  re 
calcitrant  engineer,  the  first  confronting  him. 

"Stephens,  you'll  either  get  up  steam  or  go  overboard." 

At  the  answering  protest, — "Why  this  is  piracy!"  Pete's 
hairy  hand  was  over  his  mouth,  and  he  was  catapulted  by 
four  strong  arms  into  the  bay. 


THE  AILEEN  181 

"You  oughtn'ta  do  that,"  cried  Carlotta  in  alarm.  "Why 
the  poor  fellah  '11  drown." 

But  when  she  ran  to  the  rail  and  saw  in  the  moonlight 
silvering  the  dark  waves  the  sure  swift  strokes  of  their 
victim,  swiftly  heading  for  shore,  her  fears  of  murder  were 
dispelled,  only  to  be  succeeded  by  others  equally  alarming. 

"He'll  start  the  bulls  after  us,  Mac." 

The  latter  assuring  her  that  "no  'flatfoot'  could  walk  with 
any  speed  on  the  asphalt,  let  alone  on  the  water,"  turned  to 
the  sailor. 

"You  there,  will  you  ship  with  us?  We'll  double  your 
wages  if  you  can  use  your  hands  and  lay  off  your  mouth. 
Might  as  well.  If  you  don't, — "  and  he  significantly  indi 
cated  the  disappearing  swimmer. 

"Just  as  you  say,  Cap,"  the  man  assented  sullenly. 

Pushbutton  Pete,  who  knew  something  of  engines,  as  the 
odd  scars  attested,  went  below,  and  in  three-quarters  of  an 
hour,  just  as  they  noticed  a  suspicious  scurrying  on  shore, 
they  weighed  anchor,  slipped  between  the  two  capes,  and 
put  out  to  sea. 

In  the  morning,  Old  Man  Veldmann  and  the  Pink  Swede 
went  over  the  side  in  little  swinging  seats,  and  changed  the 
yacht's  markings,  rimming  her  portholes,  and  adding  a  line 
of  red  one  foot  below  her  gunwales.  Then  they  ripped 
off  the  brass  letter  N  from  prow  and  stern,  and  one  E  of 
her  name,  ingeniously  transforming  it  into  a  C,  then  trans 
posed  the  I  and  the  L.  Forthwith,  the  Aileen  became  the 
Alice.  To  complete  the  deception,  MacAllister  searched 
through  the  yachting  register  and  found  the  ensign  of  a  man 


182  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

who  happened  to  own  a  vessel  of  the  same  burthen  and  name 
as  the  newly  christened  Alice. 

He  went  over  to  Carlotta,  who  lay  in  a  steamer  chair, 
strangely  inanimate.  She  looked  at  the  cut  of  the  desired 
pennant,  but  feebly  turned  away  her  face. 

"You're  no  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  Carlotta,  but  you  ought  to 
be  able  to  make  something  like  this." 

She  groaned. 

"The  only  flag  I  could  make  now,  Mac,  is  the  white  flag 
of  surrender." 

However,  the  hands  of  the  profane  old  man  were  quite 
equal  to  the  occasion.  A  half-hour  later  the  blue  and  white 
ensign  of  the  supposititious  owner  was  hauled  to  the  peak. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE    GYPSY    OF   THE    SEA 

"Bux,  Senorita,  I  see  them." 

"With  your  own  eyes,  Dick?"  questioned  Sally  from  the 
knightheads. 

"Yes,  with  these  eyes.  By  San  Juan  el  Moro  I  swear 
eet !" 

"That  makes  thirty-eight  fairy  stories  and  thirty-eight 
saints,  and  we've  only  been  out  nine  days." 

She  shook  her  head  sceptically,  then  gazed  up  at  the  giant 
yardarms  that  dipped  and  rose  with  the  ship's  roll,  then  in 
spite  of  herself  turned  to  listen  again. 

I  have  often  wished  that  a  painter,  even  slow  old  Queer 
Hat,  had  been  there  to  transfix  line  and  colour  forever  on 
some  canvas, — the  girl  against  the  knightheads,  a  knot  of 
scarlet  at  her  throat,  the  spray  glistening  on  her  black  lashes 
and  unfettered  hair;  those  trousers,  crosslegged  on  the 
deck  below  her,  a  Whistlerish  nocturne  in  azures  and  greys 
and  greens ;  the  brass  earrings  swaying  as  he  talked ;  the 
crimson  and  yellow  bandanna;  and  the  wrinkled  leather  of 
the  face  looking  up  at  her,  with  visions  of  lands  and  seas 
far  beyond  that  ship. 

No  cloud  above,  the  only  white  the  gulls  in  their  wake,  and 

183 


1 84  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

the  sails;  and  ever  around  them,  and  really  above,  for  the 
sea  seemed  to  rise  up  bowl-wise  to  meet  the  horizon,  the 
shifting  sapphire  of  the  waves,  their  tips  glinting  like  fire 
flies  far  brighter  than  those  of  the  night. 

And  then  the  buoyant  grace,  the  brave  strength  of  the 
ship,  the  aspiration  of  the  tall  masts,  so  like  the  soul's  own, 
the  delicate  pattern  of  the  rope-mazes,  the  curve  of  the 
filled  sail ! 

She  yielded  to  the  temptation. 

"And  you  say  you  know  him?"  again  the  girl  asked. 

"I  swear  it,  Senorita.  To  many  ports  I  go  and  in  many 
ships  I  sail — Engleesh  and  Frangais  and  those  from  Etalee 
and  my  own  Countree  and  many  more"  (Sally  loved  to  listen 
to  the  flowing  ripple  of  his  r's).  "I  see  him  when  he  sail, 
an'  his  wife  on  the  wharf  an'  the  poor  little  bebee.  An'  also 
I  see  his  bones." 

"Now,  Dick,  that  is  too  much." 

"Believe  me,  Senorita,  have  I  not  swear  by  San  Juan  el 
Moro?"  (He  named  him  reverently  in  the  Spanish  phrase 
ology  again,  this  particular  saint  being  the  patron  of  this 
particular  story.  She  wondered  how  he  never  mixed  his 
tales  and  their  protecting  patrons)  :  "Si,  I  saw  his  bones  on 
the  shore." 

"Well,  never  mind  the  bones,  Dick,  sing  it  again." 

So  over  he  sang  that  song.  It  was  English,  but  neither  the 
polyglot  patois  nor  its  haunting  music,  as  the  gypsy  inter 
preted  it,  can  be  here  reproduced  any  more  than  those  elusive 
qualities  in  the  tale  itself.  We  will  give  it  in  Sally's  pretty 
paraphrase  as  she  sang  it  seven  years  later  to  her  children, 


THE  GYPSY  OF  THE  SEA  185 

and  as  we  heard  it  again  on  one  of  our  summer  vacations  on 
the  cape.  Just  what  its  name  was  she  never  knew,  but 
something  like: 

"The  Mermaid's  Tail." 

1 

"There  was  a  sailor  bold 

Who  sailed  upon  the  deep, 
And  when  he  left  the  port 

His  wife  did  nought  but  weep. 

Chorus : 

"Ding,   dong,   ding,  dong, 

Hark  to  the  bell-buoy's  song; 
But  stop  yer  ears,  when  the  Maid  ye  hears, 
It's  death  if  ye  listen  too  long. 


'Oh  Jack,'  she  cries,  'be  true. 

'These  hands  are  skin  and  bone 
'Worn  with  workin'  fer  you, 

'And  I'll  be  all  alone/ 


"Oh  Jack  swore  long  and  loud 

By  Mary  Mother  o'  Men : 
'As  leal  and  true  as  now  I  am, 
'I'll  come  back  again.' 


i86  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 


'He  sailed  a  year  and  a  day 
To  a  sea  that  no  man  knows, 

Where  off  the  shore  o'  the  spicy  isles 
The  Love  Wind  softly  blows. 


'And  there  upon  the  waves, 
Combin'  her  golden  hair, 

A  mermaid  sang  a  pretty  song, 
And  she  was  very  fair. 


"Oh,  Jack  he  heard  her  sing 

And  saw  her  glist'ning  eyes, 
And  Nance  was  short  'er  mate  that  night, 
When  the  moon  began  to  rise. 

7 

"Now  whiter  than  her  skin, 

His  bones  tossed  by  the  tide; 
And  still  her  song  she  sings 
And  still  the  waves  she  rides. 

Chorus : 
"Ding,  dong,  ding,  dong, 

Hark  to  the  bell-buoy's  song; 
But  stop  yer  ears  when  the  Maid  ye  hears, 
It's  death  if  ye  listen  too  long!" 


THE  GYPSY  OF  THE  SEA  187 

All  through  the  ballad,  the  small  yellow  mongrel  at  his 
feet,  with  eyes  so  like  his  master's,  kept  mournfully  looking 
up  at  the  singer  and  alternately  averting  his  gaze  in  dumb 
animal  embarrassment  and  uneasiness  at  the  minor  strain. 

"Poor  lady  and  oh,  the  poor  little  bebee!"  sighed  the 
troubadour. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  dog  and  at  the  girl.  He  felt  a  little 
ashamed.  He  understood  why  she  shifted  her  position  so 
uneasily — why  her  breast  rose  and  fell — once — at  the  finish 
of  the  song. 

"It's  a  beautiful  song,  Dick — and  thank  you.  But  it's 
sad.  I  like  it  and  yet  I  don't  like  it." 

"Perhaps  the  lady  would  like  to  hear  the  tale  of  the 
wicked  Pierre  who  mock  the  good  Saints  and  go  aloft  in  the 
night  an'  was  all  swallow  up  in  St.  Elmo's  Fire.  That  ees 
not  sad,  there  ees  no  wife  an'  little  bebee  in  that  tale." 

"Never  mind  now,  Dick." 

"Or  the  tale  of  Pedro  who  marry  a  mermaid  and  love  her 
so  much  and  pray  so  hard  that  the  good  God  change  her 
tail  into  legs  and  petticoat.  They  live  in  a  little  hut  in  the 
hills  and  have  many  goats.  Then  they  forget  their  prayers  and 
when  the  first  little  bebee  come,  it  have  a  tail.  Then  for  a 
year  very  hard  they  pray,  but  the  second  little  bebee  it  also 
have  a  tail,  and  the  third.  They  never  have  any  more  bebees. 
Those  little  tails  punish  them,  for  they  forget  the  good  God." 

But  Sally  was  in  no  mood  for  his  stories  now.  That 
refrain  still  echoed  in  her  ears.  Her  averted  little  nose  and 
pretty  mouth  expressed  scorn. 

"And  vou  believe  that?"' 


1 88  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"I  myself  see  them — by  Santa  Maria  el  Blanco,  I  swear 
eet — with  these  eyes.  Pedro  and  his  wife  grow  very  poor 
an'  all  the  goats  die.  Nothing  for  them  to  eat  or  the  bebees. 
Not  one  leetle  crumb  of  bread,  not  one  leetle  drop  of  goat's 
milk.  But  the  good  God  is  sorry  even  for  them  who  forget 
Heem  an'  after,  he  send  into  the  hills  a  man  who  had  leetle 
shows  with  painted  dolls — you  pull  them  with  strings  like 
this. 

"He  see  on  the  grass  the  three  leetle  bebees,  lying  flat  on 
thin  bellies — for  as  I  tell  you,  Senorita,  they  have  so  leetle 
food — with  their  arms  on  the  ground — so"  (crooking  his 
clenched  fists  to  his  jaws).  "They  lie  just  like  real  mermaids 
as  I  see  them — so  many  times — on  the  sand  of  the  beeg  South 
Sea  Islands,  or  bebee  seals  on  the  rocks  where  it  ees  very 
cold. 

"The  man  with  the  little  dolls  see  their  tails  go  'thump,' 
'thump,'  'thump,'  on  the  ground — just  like  Alfonso  here" 
(he  placed  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the  mongrel,  who  was 
illustrating  that  part  of  the  story  realistically  on  the  deck) 
"only  his  tail  is  short  like  bologna  an'  theirs  grow  long  and 
green  an'  so  shiny  like  water. 

"He  turn  their  tails  to  gold.  I  mean  he  make  much  money 
out  of  those  tails.  For  he  take  those  little  mermaid  bebees 
to  the  beeg  city,  with  his  show  of  little  dolls,  an'  his  dancing 
girl  from  Algier  who  did  many  wiggles.  He  ask  ten  centes- 
imos  for  the  people  to  have  one  leetle  look  at  those  bebees 
with  tails.  Soon  he  had  many  pesetas  an'  so  he  turn  those 
tails  to  gold,  as  I  have  said. 

"I  myself  see  them  in  Carnival  time.     By  Santa  Maria  el 


THE  GYPSY  OF  THE  SEA  189 

Blanco — the  White  Mary,  you  call  her,  Senorita,  I  swear 
eet." 

"What  happened  to  the  Mother  and  the  Father?" 

In  spite  of  herself  the  girl  tossed  this  question  at  him. 

Gone  was  the  "solid  feel"  of  the  commonsense  Earth  under 
her  feet.  There  was  only  the  deck  rising  and  falling  to  the 
measured  swell  of  the  waves.  They  were  borne  along  over 
a  shining  sailless  sea,  and  on  towards  the  ever  retreating 
horizon,  wafted  by  winds  that  breathed  romance.  Why 
couldn't  such  things  be  true  ?  They  were  such  pretty  stories  ! 

"Oh  the  Motherr  and  Fatherr,"  he  repeated,  then,  never  at 
a  loss  for  solution  or  sequel,  he  continued  in  that  voice 
whose  foreign  inflections  lazily  rose  and  fell  like  the  sur 
rounding  sea, — 

"The  man  with  his  leetle  show  of  painted  dolls,  an'  the 
dancing  girl  from  Algierr,  and  bebee  mermaids,  send  the  poor 
man  and  his  wife  a  leetle  money — oh  not  nearly  so  much  as 
make  music  in  his  own  pocket  but  enough  to  buy  more  goats 
so  that  they  do  not  starve. 

"But  their  hearts  are  sad.  They  wish  to  see  their  bebees, 
even  with  leetle  tails.  So  they  pray  and  pray  till  they  wear  a 
beeg  hole  in  the  ground  before  the  Virgin  who  stand  by  the 
road.  Their  knees  grow  very  sore  an'  also  they  are  bent 
from  much  praying,  like  very  old  people. 

"Then  one  night  when  the  angels  light  their  lamps — the 
stars  are  their  lamps,  Senorita,  an'  they  fill  them  with  holy 
oil,  an'  trim  their  wicks  so  they  shine  bright  for  people  who 
have  eyes  in  their  heads  an'  do  not  always  look  down  on  the 
ground,  or  make  their  eyes  blind  with  looking  at  silver  pesetas 


190  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

like  the  bad  man  with  the  painted  dolls.  Oh,  no,  he  never 
see  the  stars ! 

"On  this  night  they  hear  a  voice.     It  say : 

"  'Go  sell  your  goats  an'  go  into  beeg  city  and  get  your 
bebees.' 

"They  look  up,  but  the  mouth  of  the  Virgin  is  so  still — they 
do  not  make  move  but  there  is  leetle  smile  in  her  mouth,  not 
like  yours,  Sefiorita,  when  you  make  fun  for  me,  but  like  that 
when  I  hurt  my  hand  in  the  storm  and  you  feex  it. 

"So  when  the  sun  come  up,  very  early  nex'  day,  they  sell 
their  goats  and  walk  to  the  beeg  ceety. 

"It  is  very  far,  but  they  go  very  fast,  although  they  are 
bent  like  old  people.  Sefiorita,  the  heart  give  wings  even 
to  lame  feet. 

"In  the  streets  the  rich  people  make  mock  of  them,  but 
they  jus'  think  hard  of  what  the  voice  say: 

"  'Go  get  your  bebees.' 

"It  is  again  carnival  time,  an'  in  the  plaza  they  see  the 
man  an'  his  painted  dolls  in  a  little  red  box  high  like  your 
head  an'  with  boards  like  this  above  the  middle.  The  people 
all  go  inside  to  see  the  dancing  girl.  You  would  not  like 
hcrr!  Oh  no!  She  was  not  nice. 

"All  day  the  man  and  his  wife  they  wait  in  Plaza.  At 
night  when  the  stars  shine  an'  the  people  sleep  in  their  beds, 
that  motherr  and  fatherr  go  to  the  door.  But  there  is  big 
lock  on  the  door  an'  they  cannot  open  it.  Then  they  both 
rub  their  eyes,  for  Sefiorita,  believe  me,  the  man  tell  me  him 
self,  there  come  out  the  air  a  hand.  There  was  nobody,  only 
the  hand  white  like  a  cloud.  It  hold  a  key  of  gold.  It  is  very 


THE  GYPSY  OF  THE  SEA  191 

bright  an'  the  door  it  open.  Then  the  key  an'  the  hand  go 
away. 

"The  beeg  fat  man  who  make  money  from  the  little  bebees 
an'  the  painted  dolls  he  sleep  on  leetle  bed  inside  an'  snore — 
oh,  like  a  beeg  whale.  They  step  over  him  soft  like  this — 
an'  there  on  the  hard  floor  are  the  little  bebees.  The  ends  of 
their  leetle  tails  stick  out  from  the  blanket. 

"They  pick  them  up  an'  wrap  them  in  the  blanket  an'  run 
out  of  the  beeg  city  an'  up  to  the  hills. 

"Next  day  the  man  says  to  the  people:  'Come  in  an'  see 
wonderrful  merrmaids.'  The  people  are  very  angry  to  pay 
their  centesimos  and  not  see  them.  They  throw  stone  an' 
kill  heem.  I  know  it,  Sefiorita,  I  am  there  an'  I  myself  throw 
the  stone  that  hit  heem  here"  (he  pointed  to  his  temple)  "an' 
kill  heem. 

"When  the  sun  get  up  an'  say  'Bon  Dios,'  the  motherr 
and  fatherr  are  away  up  in  the  hills  with  their  bebees  on  their 
backs,  an'  their  backs  are  not  bent  any  more.  Oh,  so  very 
straight  like  the  tall  mast  up  there!  They  hear  little 
voices  say :  'Mother  let  me  down  on  the  ground.'  But  the 
mother  do  not,  for  how  can  they  walk  on  their  tails  and  they 
have  yet  far  to  go? 

"But  the  bebees  wriggle  out — like  eels  and  the  motherr  an' 
fatherr  turn  around  an',  Sefiorita,  those  little  bebees  were 
walking  on  legs  so  straight  and  white.  They  reach  the  leetle 
hut  in  the  yard  an'  there  are  the  goats  again,  which  the  Holy 
Virgin  give  back  to  them.  So  they  live  happy  ever " 

But  the  spell  was  shattered  by  the  sound  of  seven  bells 
and  a  raucous  voice  calling : 


192  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"You're  another,  you're  another."  Through  the  gilt  bars 
of  a  cage  hanging  from  a  cleat  on  the  foremast  near  them, 
Mariuch  the  parrot,  proud  of  her  blue  and  green  and  scarlet 
magnificence,  was  transfixing  them  with  her  cantankerous 
eye. 

"You're  another,  you're  another,"  she  shrieked,  always 
happy  in  the  selection  of  the  eleven  epithets  in  her  repertoire. 

Spanish  Dick  playfully  shook  his  fist  at  her,  upbraiding 
the  culprit  in  his  own  picturesque  tongue. 

"You  infidel  of  many  colours !  I  feed  you  an'  keep  you 
well — an'  yet  you  do  not  believe  me.  My  little  Alfonso,  you 
alone  keep  the  faith."  He  looked  down  at  the  mongrel,  who 
was  frantically  thumping  his  tail  on  the  deck  in  evidence  of 
his  loyalty  and  confidence. 

"7  believe  you,  Dick,"  fibbed  Sally,  guessing  at  the  trend 
of  his  tirade,  and  placing  her  hand  sympathetically  on  his 
shoulder.  "It's  such  a  pretty  story,  and  I  do  appreciate  the 
way  you've  kept  me  from  feeling  worried  and  blue." 

Wistfully  she  looked  over  the  starboard  rail,  then  straight 
ened  suddenly. 

"Look,  Dick — there's  a  steamer  to  starboard — it  looks 
more  like  a  steam  yacht — why  it  looks  as  tiny  as  the  toy  ones 
Ben  and  Phil,  when  he  was  just  a  nice  boy — used  to  sail." 

She  made  her  way  aft  along  the  trim  deck. 

She  reached  the  after  deck-house,  steadied  herself  against 
the  lee-rail,  and  listened  to  the  hoarse  commands  from  the 
Mate's  brazen  throat,  the  shuffle  of  feet  on  deck,  the  creak 
of  block  and  pulley,  and  the  snap  of  canvas,  as  the  yards  were 
braced  and  the  ship  came  up  into  the  wind.  Above  her  the 


THE  GYPSY  OF  THE  SEA  193 

sails  and  the  towering  masts  hung  sleazily  for  a  moment, 
then  ballooned  beautifully,  as  she  heeled  over  on  the  star 
board  tack,  racing  on  over  the  blue  towards  that  ever-re 
treating  horizon.  The  girl  wished  she  could  see  its  perfect 
rim  broken  by  a  little  dark  lump  of  island.  But  for  the 
uncertainty  about  Ben  she  would  have  been  jubilantly  happy 
in  this  joyous  carefree  life  of  the  sea. 

"Don't  strain  those  pretty  eyes  of  yours,  lass!  We're  a 
good  three-hundred  miles  north  of  him  still.  Sight  the 
Luards  tomorrow,  if  all  goes  well." 

It  was  Captain  Fairwind's  voice  booming  along  the  deck. 
How  she  loved  to  hear  it!  Out  here  on  the  sea  it  always 
rang  like  a  trumpet. 

She  reached  his  side  and  asked  for  the  glass.  Still  on  their 
port,  the  far-off  tiny  yacht  nosed  its  way  steadily  southwest. 
She  could  pick  out  more  clearly  now  the  twin  slanting  masts 
and  funnel,  but  it  was  fast  steaming  out  of  sight. 

And  five  minutes  later  when  she  looked  again,  the  last  line 
of  mast,  the  last  feather  of  smoke  had  gone.  The  Alice  and 
her  unseen  motley  crew  had  vanished.  She  seemed  to  have 
passed  over  the  sparkling  rim  and  dropped  clean  over 
its  blue  edge. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE   CAFE   OF   MANY    TONGUES 

As  if  the  torments  of  his  own  fire  were  past  enduring, 
the  Sun,  who  all  day  had  blistered  the  red  roofs  and  pave 
ments  of  the  tropical  sea-port,  dropped  like  a  red-hot  stove- 
lid  behind  the  mountain  and  into  the  sea.  The  last  little 
lizard  scurried  over  the  burning  stones  of  the  courtyard, 
panting  for  relief.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  windows  and  doors 
of  Heaven  had  been  shut,  and  even  with  nightfall  only  a 
little  coolness  seeped  through,  to  give  promise  of  relief  in 
the  later  watches. 

In  the  street  outside  the  cafe  walls,  a  tired  donkey  with  head 
sinking  below  the  level  of  the  crude  shafts,  plodded  on  the 
last  lap  of  his  journey.  Skulking,  rib-slatted  curs  and  half- 
naked  children  sprawled  over  the  door  sills  or  on  the  broken 
sidewalks,  dabbling  their  brown  and  yellow  toes  in  the  green 
half -dried  up  puddles  that  spread  over  the  ill-defined  gut 
ters.  Fat,  girdleless  brown  women  offered  the  fluent  nourish 
ment  of  pouchy  breasts  to  their  all-naked  youngest  born, 
and  under  their  striped  awnings  native  shopkeepers  drowsed. 
their  heads  sinking  lower  and  lower  until  they  banged  against 
the  white  walls  of  their  bazaars,  waking  them  to  a  half- 
torpid  consciousness.  The  flames  of  sickly  lamps  shone  on 

194 


THE  CAFE  OF  MANY  TONGUES         195 

low-foreheaded  coolies,  with  tarnished  rings  in  their  ears, 
negresses  with  bold  preying  eyes,  and  the  equally  predatory 
but  subtler  glances  of  soft-eyed  quarter  and  half-bloods. 
Xow  and  then  a  derelict  Spaniard  or  American,  in  white  as 
limp  as  their  persons  and  morals,  sagged  along  in  the  poly 
glot  crowd,  always  stopping  when  the  way  was  blocked,  not 
having  enough  energy  to  elbow  a  passage  through,  and  rich 
only  in  eternities  of  time,  which  they  could  not  barter  for  the 
vicious  pleasures  of  the  place. 

Locked  arm  in  arm  with  Phil  and  with  MacAllister,  whose 
tall  bloodless  face  and  figure,  at  last  clothed  in  white,  seemed 
cool  as  ever  even  in  the  all-developing  heat,  walked  Carlotta. 
There  was  just  a  little  of  the  old  swagger  left.  The  boy 
walked  unsteadily,  and  his  blood-shot  eyes  were  dull  and 
heavy  except  when  they  picked  out  in  the  sluggish  stream  the 
lazy  grace  of  some  full-curved  figure,  faintly  outlined  by 
the  light  of  a  half -drunken  street-lamp,  or  the  summoning 
eye  of  a  handsome  quadroon,  velvety  and  full  of  languid 
allure  even  in  the  darkness  of  the  unlighted  spaces. 

The  uneven  stones  of  the  street  were  hard  on  Carlotta's 
stilted  French  heels.  She  was  very  hot,  and  the  subterranean 
V  of  her  sheer  waist  gave  her  the  appearance  of  greater 
nakedness  than  the  frank-bosomed  mothers  in  the  doorways, 
whom  her  impudent  black  eyes  scorned. 

She  had  romped  in  a  tropical  village  once  for  three  months, 
but  then  there  were  little  rows  of  electric  bulbs,  and  an 
orchestra  playing  in  front,  and  well-barbered  youths  in 
ultra  suits,  waiting  at  the  stage  door.  As  different  as  a 
patent  medicine  man's  open-air  clinic  from  a  city  hospital  in 


196  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

an  epidemic,  was  that  stage  village  from  this  swart,  stark, 
sweaty,  though  colourful,  mass  of  humanity.  They  were  like 
worms  in  a  fisherman's  bait-can,  or  coagulated  reptiles 
writhing  in  a  noisome  everglade.  Perhaps,  if  someone  had 
taken  the  bait-can  and  dumped  the  contents  into  one  of  the 
Five  Boroughs,  Carlotta  would  have  sanctioned  their  exist 
ence.  Her  big  city  could  do  no  wrong.  Its  great  mantle  can 
cover  all  ugliness  and  squalor. 

"My  Gawd,  boys,  why  did  you  ever  bring  me  from 
N'Yawk  to  this  sink-hole !" 

Phil  jerked  his  arm  from  her.  Now  that  half-Spanish 
girl  (he  mentally  called  the  exotic  beauty  "a  peach")  who  had 
looked  back !  Why — well — Carlotta  bored  him  tonight.  Pet 
tishly  he  upbraided  her : 

"You  make  me  sick,  always  grouching  about  something." 

Stung  by  this  slur,  after  all  her  patient  devotion,  the  dancer 
retorted : 

"You're  the  grouch  with  all  that  bad  whiskey  under  your 
belt.  You  ought  to  go  easy  on  the  rotten  stuff  they  ladle 
out  here." 

MacAllister  was  more  worried  about  that  peculiar  flush 
on  the  boy's  face  than  the  whiskey.  He  knew  the  fevers 
that  lurked  in  these  luckless  places.  But  his  voice,  the  cool 
est  thing  in  the  panting  town  that  night,  soothed  their 
irritation. 

"Don't  lose  your  nerve — we'll  be  off  in  the  morning. 
There's  more  aurent  gazooks  in  that  island,  my  little  babes 
in  the  wood,  than  your  innocent  hearts  ever  dreamed 
of." 


THE  CAFE  OF  MANY  TONGUES         197 

The  disgusted  girl  jeered  at  him  in  discordant  slang 
phrases  that  added  still  another  note  to  the  polyglot  noises 
of  the  street. 

"Isn't  he  the  cute  little  dreamer !  For  the  luv  o'  Mike, 
Mac,  change  your  brand.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
expect  to  strike  gold  in  that  place?  To  blazes  with  your 
fairy  stories  and  your  phoney  islands." 

"It's  like  Heaven  compared  to  Atlantic  City,  that  apogee 
of  your  ballyhoo  soul,  Carlotta,  so"  (he  descended)  "don't 
get  cold  feet  now.". 

"Cold  feet — huh — they  blister  and  burn  and  smart — ouch ! 
and  never  a  corner  drug  store  where  a  soul  can  get  footease 
of  any  sort." 

The  gambler  left  them  to  their  wrangling,  and  they  saun 
tered  slowly  up  the  street  until  they  came  to  an  ancient  and 
crazily-leaning  doorway,  built  of  stone,  in  the  Sixteenth  Cen 
tury  Spanish  style  of  the  early  discoverers. 

"This  is  the  place,"  he  said,  "hope  the  rest  are  there. 
Believe  me,  Desdemona,  it's  worth  a  gold-chest  like  Rocker- 
feller's — wrangling  that  crew." 

They  turned  from  the  street  and  all  its  noises  and  smells 
and  colours  into  the  courtyard  of  "The  Cafe  of  Many 
Tongues."  The  proprietor,  with  some  shadow  of  truth,  at 
least  as  far  as  the  period  was  concerned,  always  claimed  that 
the  stone  building  whose  narrow  windows  commanded  the 
courtyard  had  been  built  by  Ponce  de  Leon  himself.  But 
there  was  visible  no  healing  water  such  as  the  wearied  Cas- 
tilian  sought,  only  the  signs  of  old  age  and  decrepitude,  and 
in  the  shadow  of  the  walls  little  puddles  like  those  in  the 


198  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

street  outside,  not  quite  absorbed  by  the  heat  and  still  filled 
with  green  slime  and  lurking  promise  of  pestilence. 

On  the  harbour-side,  an  archway  in  the  wall  led  to  a  flight 
of  steps  worn  by  the  travel  of  countless  smugglers,  free 
booters,  and  unclassified  cutthroats  of  the  past  centuries. 
The  stairway  descended  to  a  little  wharf,  by  whose  side  a 
native  rowboat  and  a  launch  rose  and  fell  in  the  water 
gently  lapping  against  the  stone  walls.  Through  the  doorway, 
the  port  lights  of  a  nondescript  tramp  steamer  and  their 
own  trim  yacht  gleamed  in  the  roadstead. 

In  the  new-born  breeze  from  off  the  waters,  the  trees  be 
gan  to  whisper.  The  hum  of  conversation,  like  but  more 
musically  modulated  than  the  drone  of  insects,  rose  in  the 
courtyard,  with  an  occasional  epithet  in  some  strange  dialect, 
or  northern  oath,  from  the  ill-assorted  group  of  natives, 
sailors,  derelicts  and  adventurers,  who  gave  "The  Cafe  of 
Many  Tongues"  its  name. 

Passing  between  the  rows  of  twinkling  cigarettes,  they 
chose  a  place  in  the  favouring  shadows  of  the  wall  fronting 
the  street.  A  depression  in  the  yard  rendered  useless  the 
fourth  leg,  whose  see-saw  tilt  enraged  Phil  in  his  present 
irritable  mood,  and  he  snarled  out  some  cursing  criticism  of 
the  place,  loudly  demanding  a  waiter. 

Instead  of  an  obsequious,  false-shirt-fronted  attendant, 
came  a  graceful  langourous  girl  with  sparks  of  temper,  the 
adopted  daughter  of  the  proprietor  and  evidently  a  favourite 
with  the  old  patrons  of  the  place,  who  called  her  "Linda,"  x 
which  in  their  tongue  means  "the  beautiful  one." 

1  Pronounced  Leanda. 


THE  CAFE  OF  MANY  TONGUES         199 

"Not  when  Monsieur  speaks  like  that,"  she  said  in  music 
ally  accented  English,  and  turned  towards  the  two  new 
guests  who  were  taking  their  places  at  the  adjoining  table. 
One  was  a  Frenchman  in  the  customary  white  of  the  island, 
dressed  with  that  scrupulous  attention  to  the  person  of  the 
well-bred  which  shows  a  proper  regard  for  reasonable  con 
ventions,  stopping  well  on  the  right  side  of  foppishness. 
Perhaps  this  care  also  served  to  cover  a  slenderness  of  purse 
and  wardrobe.  The  effortless  grace  of  his  manner,  too,  fell 
short  of  that  extravagance  considered  by  the  untravelled 
as  characteristic  of  his  race. 

The  other  stranger,  rougher  in  exterior,  was  a  native  of 
the  island,  but  a  fellow  countryman  by  descent,  with  the  look 
of  one  who  gained  a  haphazard  living  from  the  seas. 

"Sh,"  whispered  Carlotta,  "that's  intrestin'." 

The  seafaring  man  sat  directly  facing  their  table.  Even  in 
the  slumberous,  torpid  shadows  of  the  place,  his  eyes  gleamed 
with  the  expectant  look  of  one  about  to  drive  a  hard  and 
profitable  bargain.  The  other  sat  at  right-angles  to  him. 

The  girl  Linda  hovered  over  him  with  an  amorous  interest 
in  her  smouldering  eyes,  which  was  not  lost  on  Carlotta, 
although  she  couldn't  hear  the  words  the  former  said  to  him, 
and  wouldn't  have  understood  if  she  had. 

"Monsieur  has  not  come  to  The  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues' 
for  oh — ever  so  long !  I — we  are  all  so  happy  to  see  you 
again,"  was  the  exact  translation,  and  Carlotta  hit  somewhere 
near  the  truth  when  she  whispered  to  the  motionless  Mac- 
Allister : 

"Mabel's  askin'  the  Count  where's  he  been  since  last  Satur- 


200  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

day  night  and  what  dames  he  was  out  with.  Now  she's 
pullin'  the  broken-heart  stuff  an'  she  means  part  of  it  any 
way.  But  run  away,  girlie,  you're  wastin'  your  time.  He's 
nice  and  polite,  but  he'll  never  fall  for  you." 

It  was  a  shrewd,  unconscious  paraphrase  and  judgment,  for 
the  stranger  answered  Linda  with  a  well-gauged  courtesy 
that  didn't  satisfy  the  hunger  in  those  lovely  eyes  at  all. 
Still,  as  she  took  the  order,  she  let  her  hand  fall  with  a 
designed  carelessness  on  his  shoulder,  and  once  on  his  dark 
hair,  which  held  the  wave  that  all  women  envy  and  childishly 
love  to  fondle.  But  he  never  responded  to  the  mute  appeal. 

At  last  Linda  deigned  to  take  their  own  order,  Carlotta 
whispering  to  the  girl  to  substitute  a  less  vicious  drink  for  the 
inflaming  native  concoction  Phil  ordered.  When  she  re 
turned  they  sipped  their  liquor  in  silence,  hoping  for  some 
revelation  of  the  stranger's  presence  in  this  place.  Had 
he  deliberately  followed  them  from  Boston  to  Salthaven  and 
from  there  to  this  unfrequented  port?  That  was  not  quite 
the  solution,  for  his  dreaming,  somewhat  downcast  gaze 
never  searched  the  courtyard  or  even  cast  a  glance  towards 
their  table.  They  drew  their  chairs  back  further  within  the 
shadows  of  the  many-fissured  wall  and  the  whispering  tree 
whose  trunk  rose  between  the  two  tables,  and  listened  in 
tently.  The  low  well-modulated  voices  did  not  carry  to  the 
listeners,  and  the  only  stray  expressions  they  caught  were  in 
French. 

Carlotta  gruffly  whispered : 

"What  was  the  matter  with  you,  Mac,  that  you  didn't 
learn  to  pollyvransey  in  all  your  travels?" 


THE  CAFE  OF  MANY  TONGUES         201 

As  the  stranger  sat  at  right-angles  to  the  wall,  with  an 
old-world  air  of  distinction  ana  outworn  romance,  Carlotta 
quite  forgot  the  heat,  her  blistered  feet,  and  all  her  troubles, 
in  speculating  about  his  mystery. 

"He's  had  a  past — by  heck — he's  had  a  past!  Lost  all 
his  fortune  at  cards.  Old  Duke  Guy  disinherits  him.  Lady 
Leonore  weeps  oodles,  then  hitches  to  the  old  Marky  with 
the  gout  and  his  ropes  of  poils.  There  you  have  it,  and  now 
he  roams  and  roams  the  world,  singin'  'Farewell  for  ever  me 
own  troo  luv?'  But  he's  got  nerve  enough  behind — if  some 
body 'd  only  jar  him  out  of  his  pipe-dreams." 

She  was  probably  only  half -wrong  in  her  rough  reading, 
for  the  lighted  match  which  he  held  to  his  cigarette  now 
revealed  the  face,  turned  three-quarters  towards  them,  with 
its  olive  hue  of  South-eastern  France  and  its  almost  femi 
nine  grace  of  contour.  In  the  light  of  a  later  match,  quite  as 
in  Queer  Hat's  Studio,  one  was  relieved  to  note  that  this 
delicacy  of  feature  was  saved  by  the  courageous  mouth  and 
firm  foundation  of  the  jaw.  Perhaps  a  more  expert  physiog 
nomist  than  Carlotta  would  have  said  that  the  inherited 
melancholy  of  a  line  doomed  to  a  century's  continued  mis 
fortunes  had  in  him  darkened  to  a  sombre  fatalism — pos 
sibly  with  a  final  and  crushing  catastrophe.  Had  he  in 
addition  to  his  discernment  possessed  a  strain  of  the  romantic, 
he  might  have  added  that  never  had  the  sword  of  this  spirit 
actually  rusted.  It  was  only  sheathed  in  the  sadness  of  those 
dark  eyes,  and  could  flash  forth  right  royally  if  the  occasion 
came. 

The  final  flicker  of  the  match  fell  on  an  object  of  greater 


202  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

interest  to  the  watching  conspirators  than  the  melancholy 
foreigner  himself.  It  was  a  small  rectangular  piece  of  paper, 
which  the  host  was  explaining  to  his  companion. 

The  seafaring  man  moved  his  chair  a  little,  and  the  oil- 
flare  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  cast  a  circle  of  light,  a 
little  paler  than  the  paper  itself,  which  was  yellow  with  age. 
They  saw  that  there  were  faint  indications  of  outlines  upon 
it. 

The  seafaring  man  studied  it,  looked  up  at  the  other's 
question,  assumed  a  look  of  honest  calculation.  He  then 
began  a  series  of  shrugs  and  gestures,  thrusting  his  upheld 
fingers  before  the  other's  face,  perhaps  to  indicate  time  or 
price.  This  was  but  the  preliminary  stage  of  the  bargain, 
like  the  mimic  sparring  before  the  real  bout  begins.  Through 
it  all  the  prospective  buyer  sat  in  silence,  his  cigarette  alter 
nately  paling  or  reddening  through  the  ash  with  his  inhala 
tions.  At  last  he  spoke,  with  an  air  of  finality,  and  they 
evidently  got  down  to  business.  The  gambler  caught  one 
or  two  French  words, — francs  and  bateaux,  whose  mean 
ing  he  had  picked  up  on  his  travels. 

Suddenly  the  incorrigible  Carlotta  who  had  been  leaning 
forward,  trying  to  decipher  the  paper,  exclaimed: 

"That's  it.  It's  your  phony  island.  Another  map!  Can 
you  beat  it !  I  didn't  think  there  were  other  nuts  loose  in 
the  world  like  you  and  Phil — m-m-m — I  hope  there  aren't 
any  squirrels  loose  on  the  island !" 

"Keep  quiet!"  MacAllister  meantime  had  cautioned,  for 
her  voice,  almost  raised  to  its  usual  pitch,  sounded  above 
the  soft  melodious  flow  of  voices,  as  incongruously  strident 


THE  CAFE  OF  MANY  TONGUES         203 

in  this  other  world  place  as  the  vibrating  jangle  of  a  Jew's 
harp  or  a  bit  of  latter  day  Jazz  would  have  been. 

The  stranger  turned,  looked  hardly  in  their  direction,  then 
pocketed  the  map.  And  "Linda,"  who  had  been  watching 
them,  whispered  something  in  his  ear. 

After  a  phrase  of  warning  to  his  guest,  he  lingered  for  a 
moment,  occasionally  uttering  a  sentence  or  two  of  apparent 
inconsequence.  Then  he  paid  the  reckoning  and  entered  the 
door  of  the  main  building  of  "The  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues." 

"You're  a  beautiful  fisherman,"  said  Mac  to  Carlotta. 
"But  I've  got  what  I  wanted.  They're  going  to  fit  out  a  little 
expedition  of  their  own,  which,  by  the  way,  they'll  never 
make." 

Over  the  wall  from  the  street  came  ribald  conversation 
from  two  northern  voices.  The  sulphurous  exclamations 
were  furnished  by  a  third  and  very  familiar  pilgrim. 

"Hell's  Bells!  but  this  is  a  blankety  blank  blank  blankety 
sewer-hole!  A  regular  cess-pool,  says  I.  Blank  blank  me 
hide,  if  ever  I  ship  under  a  kid  without  hair  on  his  chest, 
a  sky-pilot  gambler  with  his  sleeves  full  o'  cards,  and  a 
high-kicking  petticoat  for  Mate." 

"It's  the  saw  mouthed  old  divil,"  commented  Carlotta. 
"What  a  bird  of  a  stage-door  keeper  he'd  make  for  the  Old 
Boy!" 

The  three  sailors  rolled  in  through  the  gate  from  the 
street.  Pushbutton  Pete  walked  as  if  he  had  a  full  cargo, 
but  fairly  well-ballasted,  shifting  now  and  then  so  he  listed 
a  bit,  but  on  the  whole  navigating  very  well.  The  scars  on  his 
face  and  forehead  were  flushed  with  heat  and  alcohol.  The 


204  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Pink  Swede  staggered  sullenly  behind,  his  heavy  muscled 
pink  torso  stripped  to  the  waist.  The  short  figure  of  Old 
Man  Veldmann  stood  swaying  by  the  first  table,  his  feet 
spread  wide  apart. 

"Ye — dirty  yellow  rats,  ye  shriveled,  miscarried  spawn 
of  black  wenches,  vamoose  and  make  room  for  white  men!" 
the  fog-horn  voice  roared  through  the  wicked  saw-mouth. 
He  spat  on  the  sidewalk  dangerously  near  the  diners,  swept 
the  glasses  off  the  near  table,  and  took  the  panama  from 
the  head  of  a  native,  hurling  it  high  up  into  a  palm-tree, 
where  it  rested,  ludicrously  outlined  against  the  starry  sky. 

A  knife  flashed,  but  MacAllister,  who  had  swiftly  glided 
forward  from  his  place,  knocked  it  from  the  insulted  one's 
hand  with  a  blow  on  the  wrist. 

"Ye  little  pint-pot,  coffee-coloured  shrimp!"  roared  the 
hoary  old  sinner,  but  MacAllister's  hand  was  over  his  mouth, 
and,  awed  as  usual  by  the  superior  coolness  of  their  leader, 
they  were  hustled  out  of  the  courtyard  before  the  angrily- 
chattering  diners  could  attack  them,  Pushbutton  Pete 
effectively  guarding  the  rear  of  the  retreat. 

With  a  quick  order  to  Pete  to  herd  the  two  recalcitrants, 
MacAllister  re-entered  and  hurried  over  to  the  table  in  the 
corner.  It  was  growing  late  and  the  diners  were  beginning 
to  leave,  lazily  sauntering  away  in  groups  of  twos  or  threes. 
Phil  was  riveted  to  the  table  top,  deep  in  feverish  slumber, 
and  the  gambler  and  the  girl  had  difficulty  in  getting  him  to 
his  feet  and  steering  him  past  the  loungers,  who  still  re 
mained  to  sip  what  relief  and  forlorn  pleasure  they  could 
from  the  dregs  of  the  evening. 


THE  CAFE  OF  MANY  TONGUES         205 

As  they  rejoined  the  group,  they  heard  the  voice  of  the 
girl  Linda  unsuccessfully  pleading  with  the  strange  French 
man,  just  inside  the  ancient  doorway.  He  left  her  and  slowly 
paced  up  the  street  towards  the  north,  lost  in  some  brood 
ing  memories  of  the  past,  or  perhaps  some  faintly  flickering 
hope  of  the  future. 

"Pete,"  whispered  MacAllister,  drawing  that  worthy  aside, 
"that  French  boy  is  starting  a  little  expedition  of  his  own 
for  our  island.  No  first  degree  stuff — a  week's  lay-up  will 
be  enough.  These  greaser  cops  are  as  helpless  as  Secaucus 
constables,  but  it's  better  to  play  safe.  So  use  discretion, 
Pete,  use  discretion !" 

His  husky  lieutenant  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  shifted  the  lump  from  cheek  to  cheek,  and  hitched  his 
trousers,  as  signals  for  action. 

"I'll  use  somethin'  on  him  all  right,"  he  answered,  then 
disappeared  up  the  street,  shadowing  the  stranger  around  the 
corner  of  the  northern  end  of  "The  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues," 
and  into  a  deserted  alley  that  descended  to  the  water.  It 
was  very  dark  here,  and  the  only  sounds  were  those 
of  the  wavelets  whispering  their  secrets  to  the  ancient 
walls. 

Carlotta  and  MacAllister  needed  all  their  determination 
and  tact  to  guide  the  protesting  Phil,  the  pugnacious  old 
man,  and  the  Swede,  southward  along  the  irregular  street. 
The  polyglot  babel  had  steadied  to  the  snoring  drone  of 
many  sleepers  under  the  striped  awnings  on  the  uneven 
sidewalks,  or  in  the  narrow-windowed  rooms  above.  They 
chose  the  middle  of  the  highway,  for  the  walk  itself  was 


206  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

clogged  with  huddled  bodies ;  old  and  young,  ragged  and  stark 
naked,  human  and  canine,  mingling  together. 

The  provoking  coolness  of  the  stars  was  too  far  off. 
The  hot  moon  hung  low,  and,  instead  of  its  usual  cheering 
gold,  had  assumed  a  sickly  saffron.  The  sleepers  stirred 
uneasily  and  the  tongues  of  the  dogs  lolled  over  their  jaws, 
their  little  hearts  beating  sterterously  like  small  machines  that 
try  the  steep  hills. 

Three  squalid  squares  they  passed,  then  veered  to  the 
water's  edge.  At  a  wharf  the  gasoline  launch  lay  moored, 
with  a  sailor  in  its  cockpit.  They  entered  and  waited. 

The  heat  of  her  room  in  the  little  cafe  was  unendurable, 
and  Linda  removed  the  few  garments  she  wore,  donning  a 
flowing  one  of  sheer  white,  then  gathered  up  her  quilt  to 
descend  to  the  cooler  and  now  deserted  courtyard. 

She  heard  a  muffled  cry,  stopped,  her  heart  beating,  then 
went  to  the  narrow  window  that  commanded  the  northern 
alley  leading  to  the  water,  and  looked  down  into  its  dark 
ness. 

Footsteps  shuffled  around  the  corner.  The  fugitive  had 
gone.  She  strained  her  eyes  and  saw  a  body  lying  prone  on 
the  hard-baked  earth.  With  a  little  cry  she  descended  the 
stairs,  crossed  the  yard  and  threshold  of  the  gate,  arms, 
ankles,  and  shoulders,  slipping  from  their  white  sheath, 
and  betraying  the  grace  of  her  lithe  body. 

She  ran  up  the  street,  turned  into  the  alley.  A  mongrel 
sniffed  at  the  face  which  lay  on  the  edge  of  one  of  those  half- 
dried  green  puddles.  She  looked  into  the  still  features. 
There  was  a  dark  stain  upon  them.  Tenderly  she  gathered 


THE  CAFE  OF  MANY  TONGUES         207 

the  head  to  her  bosom,  murmuring  an  incoherent  jumble  of 
love-cries. 

Three  squares  up  the  Main  Street  and  one  turn  to  the 
right,  Pushbutton  Pete  was  taking  his  seat  in  the  launch. 
With  its  cocky  "put,  put,  put,"  the  little  boat  moved  on  its 
course  towards  the  steam  yacht. 

Pete  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  ugly  scarred  features, 
shifted  the  lump  to  the  other  cheek,  and  handed  over  a 
yellow  paper. 

"I  used  some  of  that  there  discretion  you  was  tellin'  about, 
Cap,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  GIRL  LINDA 

PHILIP  did  not  appear  for  breakfast,  and  MacAllister 
found  him  tossing  in  his  bunk.  After  a  hasty  examination 
the  gambler  left  him,  and  climbed  the  companionway  to  the 
deck. 

"It's  more  than  a  morning-after  fever,"  he  said  to  Car- 
lotta,  who  lolled  on  a  steamer  chair  under  a  gay  bit  of 
awning,  clad  in  a  very  negligent  negligee  of  apricot  silk, 
which  allowed  a  maximum  of  comfort  in  that  climate,  as 
well  as  freedom  for  those  fleshly  assets  of  hers  which  made 
her  a  favourite  at  Standishs'. 

Across  the  water  came  the  creak  of  a  windlass  from  the 
red-waterlined  tramp,  weighing  anchor.  A  half-mile  away 
ranged  the  red  roofs  of  the  town  and  its  walls,  the  more 
modern  glistening  white,  the  ancient,  like  the  Cafe  of  Many 
Tongues,  worn  by  Time  to  a  softer  grey.  Southward,  an 
obsolete  fort  with  a  puffy  little  cannon  and  a  pyramid  of 
rusting  cannon-balls,  sentinelled  the  place.  From  the  twin 
towers  of  the  venerable  Spanish  Cathedrals  came  the  sound 
of  pealing  bells. 

"Wonder  if  we  can  rustle  a  doctor  in  that  God- forsaken 
hole,"  continued  MacAllister  and  then, — "Hey,  Pete,  take  the 
launch,  and  bring  the  best  pill-mixer  they've  got  in  the  place. 
If  he  bucks,  use  him  gently,  Pete,  very  gently." 

208 


THE  GIRL  LINDA  209 

The  girl  descended  to  Phil's  cabin  to  administer  the  first 
aid  of  caresses,  the  only  nursing  technique  in  which  she  had 
had  any  training,  mentally  cursing,  the  while,  her  idiocy 
(she  called  it  "boneheadedness")  in  leaving  her  habitat  (that 
she  called  "God's  Country").  Why  should  she  be  chas 
ing  a  "fool  kid"  who  wanted  to  "shake  her,"  when,  as  all 
the  real  world  knew,  millionaires  should  be  decorating 
her  with  diamonds  and  "poils" —  her  with  her  face  and 
figure ! 

On  deck,  MacAllister  watched  the  dock,  where  the  little 
launch  lay  moored,  through  his  glass.  Pete  was  evidently 
following  his  leader's  instructions  to  the  letter,  for  a  half- 
hour  later  MacAllister  saw  him  backing  to  the  wharf,  one 
hand  seemingly  twisted  in  the  collar  of  a  struggling  figure, 
the  other  hand,  probably  armed  with  an  eloquent  automatic, 
levelled  on  a  gesticulating  crowd  of  natives. 

He  got  away  from  the  wharf  in  perfect  order,  and  reached 
the  yacht.  Up  the  ladder  under  Pete's  gentle  persuasion,  or 
rather  above  it,  climbed  a  seedy  sallow-faced  individual  with 
yellow  slit-pupilled  eyes  that  looked  more  dangerous  than  any 
instrument  in  his  delapidated  case. 

"He's  a  nasty  bird,  Cap.  Keep  your  lamps  on  him," 

warned  Pete.  "Those  brown on  shore  are  stirrin'  up  a 

hell  uv  a  mess  over  the  Frenchy.  Better  weigh  anchor  an' 
damn  quick!" 

MacAllister  summoned  the  shanghaied  sailor,  the  only 
member  of  the  Aileen's  original  crew  with  them,  ordered  up 
steam,  then  turned  to  the  snarling-eyed  practitioner  of 
medicine. 


210 

"Here — you!  Go  below  and  fix  your  patient.  If  you  try 
any  dirty  work,  you'll  sail  with  us — in  bracelets." 

Wincing  at  the  clinking  handcuffs,  this  poltroon  of  a 
practitioner  scuffled,  or  rather  slid  below,  and  after  testing 
pulse,  forehead,  and  throat,  and  snapping  out  a  few  ques 
tions,  took  from  his  case  a  bottle  of  powders. 

"Try  it  yourself,"  the  gambler  ordered. 

The  other  protested,  with  a  sputtering  of  oaths  and  angry 
gestures,  replaced  the  bottle,  and  took  out  others,  which  he 
tasted. 

"I  thought  so,  you  weasel.  Now  leave  those  bottles  here 
and  give  the  directions,  pronto." 

Again  he  obeyed,  and  they  climbed  the  companionway. 

Steam  was  curling  from  the  funnels.  From  off-shore 
came  a  native  row-boat.  In  the  prow  stood  a  pompous  pot 
bellied  individual  in  a  braided  uniform  and  queer  visored 
red  hat  with  a  cockade.  This  tuppeny  official  waved  a  sword 
in  one  hand  and  gesticulated  with  the  other.  Two  brown 
soldiers  with  rifles  sat  in  the  stern. 

"What'd  I  tell  you?"  growled  Pete.  "Them  theatre-so- 
jers  is  going  to  subpeeny  us." 

The  chains  rattled  through  the  hawser-holes ;  up  came  the 
anchor;  the  screw  churned  the  water  under  her  stern;  and 
the  yacht  glided  on  her  way. 

The  town  with  its  sin  and  squalor  had  been  sinister  and 
tragic  enough  the  night  before,  and  in  it  still  lurked  cut 
throats  worthy  of  fear,  but  the  officialdom  of  the  port  was  as 
ineffectual  and  comic  as  the  cast  of  any  slapstick  opera- 
bouffe  of  the  nineties. 


THE  GIRL  LINDA  211 

Around  the  fort  bustled  little  ludicrous,  gay-clad  figures. 
There  was  an  explosion.  A  grape-shot  skimmed  the  waves, 
a  third  of  a  mile  on  their  port.  A  cloud  of  dust  rose.  The 
ball  had  cut  a  gaping  hole  in  a  ramshackle  building  on  the 
opposite  shore,  and  the  half -naked  occupants  danced  in 
frenzy  on  the  sands,  then  scurried  pell-mell  into  the  palms. 
There  was  another  wheezy  little  roar.  Fragments  of  old 
iron  showered  the  air.  The  little  cannon  had  exploded  and 
there  were  bright  little  splashes  of  colour  on  the  sand,  for  all 
the  ludricous  soldiers  in  their  gay  uniforms  lay  flat  on 
their  bellies,  both  the  sound  as  well  as  the  mortally  hurt. 

From  the  prow  of  the  row-boat  wildly  swished  the  sword 
of  the  fat  official  with  the  rakish  cockade. 

The  gambler  turned  to  Pete  and  the  Pink  Swede,  and 
crooked  his  shoulder  towards  the  sallow-faced  practitioner 
of  medicine. 

"Overboard!" 

They  grabbed  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  tossed  him, 
bag  and  all,  his  legs  sprawling  ridiculously  in  the  air,  clean 
over  the  port  rail. 

He  could  swim  just  enough  to  stay  afloat  till  the  row-boat 
reached  him,  and  the  two  soldiers  dragged  him  like  a  half- 
drowned  muskrat  by  his  heels  over  the  stern,  losing  their 
rusty  rifles  in  the  process. 

"Cuss  away,  ye  Mocho  galoots,  ye  flea-bitten  curs,  ye  nico 
tine  shrimps,  ye  little  walking  fried  sausages!"  was  Old  Man 
Veldmann's  parting  salvo,  which,  as  Carlotta  observed,  was 
"goin'  some"  even  for  this  graceless  old  artist. 

So,  after  executing  in  this  very  modern  way  the  old  free- 


212  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

hooters'  sentence  of  "walking  the  plank,"  the  mongrel  crew 
of  Broadway  pirates  sailed  away,  leaving  the  frenzied  offi 
cials  of  the  port  to  take  toll  of  their  casualties. 

Meanwhile,  between  the  acts  of  this  comic  opera,  the  girl 
Linda,  in  her  stifling  room  in  the  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues,  was 
enacting  a  real  drama  of  her  own.  She  was  genuine  enough 
herself,  but,  as  business  is  business  in  all  cities  and  ports, 
her  father,  a  Spaniard  who  conducted  the  cafe  in  the  way  all 
such  places  must  be  run,  was  not  heavily  burdened  with 
scruples  of  any  sort,  and  her  own  life  as  his  assistant  had 
been  necessarily  free  from  many  conventions.  But  her 
mother,  an  emigre  Frenchwoman,  thrifty  and  a  regular  wor 
shipper  in  the  big  white  Cathedral,  had  left  with  the  girl  a 
set  of  principles  far  beyond  the  conception  of  the  average 
patron  of  the  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues. 

She  sat  at  the  narrow  window,  mending  the  jacket  of  the 
wounded  man,  who  lay  asleep  on  her  bed.  His  head  was 
bound  with  a  bandage  of  her  own  careful  making. 

She  had  her  arts.  She  could  use  the  grace  of  that  olive- 
brown  shoulder,  all  of  her  lithe  body  if  necessary.  Yet  now, 
for  all  its  softly  rounded  outlines,  it  gave  only  the  impres 
sion  of  strength,  boundless  vitality,  and  the  refreshing  repose 
that  the  wounded  man  needed  most.  The  face  softly- 
rounded,  too,  was  that  of  an  olive-brown  Madonna,  faintly 
flushed  with  rose  and  Love.  The  sun-ray  slanting  through 
the  window  revealed  a  faint  silken  floss  on  the  cheek. 

From  below  sounded  the  voice  of  her  father,  busy  with 
foaming  spigots,  and  ordering  jabbering  coolies  to  their 
duties ;  the  clatter  of  shifted  chairs,  and  the  clink  of  glasses. 


THE  GIRL  LINDA  213 

Angry  tropical  insects  droned  through  the  room,  their  vibrat 
ing  wings  translating  the  torpid  heat  into  sound.  She  brushed 
them  away  from  the  sleeper's  face,  bent  over  and  kissed  him 
on  the  cheek,  and  fondled  the  wave  in  his  hair.  Playfully 
she  shooed  away  a  little  lizard,  then  returned  to  her  seat  by 
the  window  and  began  to  sing  softly  as  she  sewed.  She  was 
very  happy.  Not  that  she  would  have  had  him  wounded — 
to  suffer  so — oh  Mother  Mary  in  Heaven,  no !  But  if  it  had 
to  happen,  the  Blessed  Virgin  must  have  sent  him  to  her. 

"At  first  sight !"  There  is  no  such  love  you  say.  But  there 
is  such  a  glorious  thing,  sceptic  and  worldly  wiseman  not 
withstanding.  If  you  have  the  seeing  eye  you  will  find  before 
you  grow  old — or  at  least  then,  when  the  inner  eye  clears  as 
the  outer  dims — many  witnesses  who  will  testify  to  the 
miracle. 

Linda  could  have  been  one  of  the  witnesses.  The  miracle 
had  happened  over  a  year  ago  when  into  the  Cafe  of  Many 
Tongues  first  came  this  foreigner  with  his  air  of  old-world 
distinction.  How  well  she  remembered  that !  And  there  he 
was  now,  weak  and  wounded,  yet  with  her,  and  in  her  care, 
which  was  all  that  mattered. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  called : 

"Linda!" 

"Yes."    It  was  only  one  word,  yet  it  told  many  things. 

"The  yellow  paper — the  chart !    Did  you  see  it  ?" 

She  searched  everywhere.  At  the  envelopes  she  looked 
carefully,  jealously  studying  the  handwritings  on  each. 

"No,  Monsieur,  there  is  no  yellow  paper,  only  these 
envelopes,  three  white,  and  this  one  of  blue." 


214  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"They  have  taken  it,  the  scoundrels !" 

He  tried  to  rise — 

"I  must  start  today !" 

"Where,  Monsieur?" 

"For  the  island." 

"You  are  too  weak.  Lie  still,"  she  said,  lowering  him 
gently  as  a  mother  a  child.  "You  must  be  good.  Maybe  in 
three  weeks,  maybe  two,  you  can  go." 

"And  then,"  she  said,  remembering  the  words  the  Old 
Padre  had  once  repeated  in  the  Confirmation  Class,  in  that 
very  pretty  story, — "Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go !" 

The  wounded  man,  too  weak  to  protest,  closed  his  eyes. 

"Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go,"  the  girl  softly  repeated. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
LAND  HO! 

THE  reckoning  which  Ben  had  inscribed  on  the  bit  of 
birchbark,  later  brought  to  Barnabee  Beach,  and  which  hangs 
over  a  Salthaven  fireplace  to  this  day,  hadn't  been  accurate, 
of  course,  shrewd  guess  though  it  was.  Ten  days  had 
elapsed  since  they  had  reached  these  waters,  and  they  had 
circled,  and  tacked,  and  "gone  about,"  between  and  around 
all  the  known  islands  that  lie  like  emeralds,  heavenly-soft, 
on  the  breast  of  the  Carribean,  Guadeloupe,  Montserrat,  and 
tiny  Marie  Galante,  Rodonda,  Nevis,  and  St.  Kitts — all  of  the 
group  which  Captain  Fairwinds  knew  like  a  book,  and  which, 
as  the  admiring  Benson  swore,  with  a  pardonable  exaggera 
tion,  the  skipper  could  find  if  all  compasses  failed  and  the 
stars  went  out. 

At  eight  bells  of  the  tenth  day — the  eighteenth  since  they 
set  sail — the  skipper  took  another  reckoning — 62-46  West, 
it  read,  and  17-19,  or  thereabouts,  North — no  sail  or  strand 
in  sight — and  the  North  Star  headed  away  from  the  outmost 
sentinel  of  the  Leewards,  on  a  course  south-southwest. 

"I  wonder  how  the  boy  calculated  that,"  said  the  skipper, 
scanning  the  horizon,  "he  must  have  kept  a  pretty  level  head. 
Remembered  the  last  log  entry,  I  suppose,  counted  the  days 

215 


216  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

he  drifted,  and  reckoned  the  drift.  But  it's  funny  the  island 
was  never  charted — almost  spooky,  an  old  wives'  tale." 

Then,  seeing  an  expression  of  concern,  almost  of  alarm, 
flit  across  her  face,  he  hastened  to  add, — 

"It's  somewhere  in  these  parts,  of  course.  I  was  thinking  of 
the  yarns  about  it, — floating  and  haunted,  and  all  that.  Then, 
too,  the  fact  that  it's  not  populated,  when  every  little  chip 
of  an  islet  in  these  seas  is  swarming  with  blacks. 

"I've  never  clapped  eyes  on  it,"  he  continued,  after  making 
sure  of  the  light  in  his  brier,  "but  it  was  owned  once,  so 
the  yarn  goes,  by  a  French  family,  some  grabbag  lot  of  dooks 
or  markeys  or  discounts — they  lived  there  a  long  time.  But 
a  whole  flock  of  misfortunes  landed  on  'em, — fever,  murder, 
plague,  earthquake,  pirates,  and  such,  that  they  gave  it  up 
as  a  bad  job.  Left  it  to  the  squatters  and  beachcombers,  and 
the  coffee-coloured  wretches  that  make  some  sort  of  a  living 
from  the  sea.  The  last  big  earthquake  or  visitation  of  spooks 
or  voodoos  drove  them  off — that  is,  if  you're  to  believe  the 
tale — and,  well,  there  you  are.  But  that  old  rascal,  Mr.  They 
Say,  tells  us  it's  a  little  chunk  of  H'eaven  let  down  on  the 
water  to  show  folks  what  the  good  place  looks  like.  But 
I  guess  the  Devil  got  in  his  licks  since — There,  there,  I've 
told  you  all  I've  heard  about  it" — Sally  smiled,  for  he  seemed, 
for  some  reason,  to  be  getting  confused — "So  take  it  for  what 
it's  worth — which  means  it's  all  a  lot  of  nonsense  and  a 
pack  of  infernal  lies,"  he  finished  lamely. 

"No,  no,  Senor,  no  lie,  eet  is  like  that,  for  I  have  seen  eet. 
This  foot  she  have  step  on  it." 

They  hadn't  heard  the  pad  of  shoeless  feet  on  the  quarter- 


LAND  HO!  217 

deck  behind  them,  not  quite  the  place  for  an  ordinary  seaman, 
but  Spanish  Dick  was  subject  to  little  discipline  and  many 
privileges,  the  chiefest  of  which  being  that  of  companion  or 
troubadour  to  Sally. 

"It  ees  a  floating  islan',"  he  continued  with  such  serious 
ness  as  Hamlet  must  have  assumed,  "no  thing  under  it,  no 
coral,  no  rock,  jus'  water.  An'  it  drif  around  in  the  blue 
sea." 

"Drifts  around  just  like  that!"  teased  the  girl. 

Again  the  melting  brown  eyes  assumed  their  look  of  in 
jured  innocence. 

"Yes,  by  San  Christobal  de  Colon,  the  good  saint,  I  have 
seen  eet — once  in  the  night.  We  sight  eet  in  the  dogwatch 
an'  try  to  reach  eet.  All  over  with  beautiful  lights — like  what 
you  call — phosphor — an'  like  a  beautiful  veil  with  gold  light 
ning  in  eet,  and  in  the  sky  always  shining,  many  moons, 
seven  moons,  six  leetle  young  ones  an'  one  ol'  one. 

"We  never  come  near  eet.  Yet  we  sail  very  fast,  twelve 
knot  was  the  wind.  But  always  eet  drif  on  an'  on,  though 
we  sail  so  fast.  In  the  morning — "  he  threw  up  his  hands 
with  a  mystifying  gesture — "gone!" 

"If  the  law  allowed,  I'd  put  you  in  irons,  Dick.  Why  do 
you  fill  the  girl's  head  with  your  fool  superstitions?"  But 
the  skipper's  reproof  was  only  mockly  severe.  Dick  was 
really  a  Godsend  for  Sally. 

"No  fool,  Senor,"  he  was  replying,  "the  fool  ees  he  who 
not  believe.  The  wise  have  faith." 

"He's  right  in  a  way,  Captain  Harve,"  championed  his 
ward.  "I  don't  swallow  everything,  but  there's  enough  of 


218  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

the  kid  in  me  to  half  believe  him,  still.  He  tells  such  pretty 
stories.  And  oh,  I  wish  they  were  true  !  They  are — in  spirit 
anyway." 

And  the  quaint  teller  of  tales,  guessing  at  her  defence  of 
him  though  he  didn't  understand  all  of  her  brief,  inter 
jected, — 

"The  Senorita  ees  kind  an'  have  the  faith." 

"Besides,  Uncle  Harve,  you'll  admit  it's  strange — the 
haunted  island,  not  a  living  soul  on  it,  and  such  a  beautiful 
place — yet  not  on  any  chart." 

"It  is  strange,"  Captain  Fairwinds  admitted,  "but  I  could 
always  find  a  practical  solution  for  every  mystery  I  ever 
heard  of,  and  every  ghost  that  ever  walked.  His  Seven 
Moons  now,  they're  a  mirage  perhaps,  or  electrical  phenome 
non  like  St.  Elmo's  Fire — or  whatnot.  Though  I  have  heard 
it  called  'The  Isle  of  Seven  Moons.'  ' 

"The  Isle  of  Seven  Moons!"  She  repeated  it  musically. 
"That  is  pretty,"  then  slowly,  "I  wonder!"  Which  perhaps 
again  was  a  girl's  delicate  way  of  saying, — "There  are  more 
things  in  Heaven  and  earth,  Harvey,  than  are  dreamt  of  in 
your  philosophy." 

At  five  bells  the  girl,  who  was  almost  always  to  be  found 
on  deck  these  days,  hailed  Captain  Fairwinds. 

"What's  that — on  our  starboard  bow?" 

Yes,  she  was  sure  of  it,  and  to  confirm  it,  came  the  look 
out's  cry.  There  was  a  little  smudge  on  the  horizon,  a  little 
darker  than  the  sea's  blue  rim. 

"The  glass,  Captain  Harve!"  and  she  danced  up  and  down 
on  the  deck,  her  hands  and  mouth  twitching  in  impatience. 


LAND  HO!  219 

The  little  smudge  expanded  just  as  it  had,  though  ever  so 
much  more  slowly,  for  Ben  on  his  floating  spar.  It  did  grow 
into  an  island,  and  when  the  sun  went  down,  they  could  see 
the  clear  outline  of  Cone  Mountain.  The  stars  trooped  up 
from  the  sea,  and  on  and  on  towards  it  they  sailed,  until 
they  could  distinguish  the  Twin  Horns,  stretching  out  darkly 
into  the  water,  and  the  mountain  loomed  up  high  in  the  air. 
They  had  neither  chart  nor  pilot,  but  the  Captain,  as  boyishly 
eager  to  reach  the  harbour  as  Sally,  instead  of  casting  anchor 
outside,  kept  the  North  Star  to  her  course.  Carefully  sound 
ing  with  the  lead,  they  glided  between  the  two  dark  capes 
and  rested  on  the  placid  bosom  of  Rainbow  Bay.  The  anchor 
went  down  with  a  splash,  Sally  almost  after  it  in  her  im 
patience.  She  was  all  for  going  ashore.  That  strip  of  sand 
was  so  white  in  the  moonlight,  the  feathery  crown  of  Royal 
palms  waved  a  soft  invitation — and  Ben  might  be  very  near. 

But  the  Captain  of  the  North  Star  said,  "Not  till  dawn." 
So  Sally  disappeared  down  the  companionway,  and  entered 
her  cabin.  Through  the  porthole  she  tossed  a  kiss  towards 
that  gleaming  strip  of  sand,  then  uttered  a  prayer  of  pure 
gratitude,  and  tried  to  fall  asleep  to  the  lapping  of  the  water 
against  the  ship's  side. 

But  sleep  would  not  come  in  spite  of  the  wave's  lullaby. 
Every  nerve  vibrated  with  excitement.  As  the  old  Salthaven 
folk  used  to  say  of  children  so  wrought  up  over  the  mor 
row's  journey  to  Boston-town  that  they  were  neither  fit  for 
food  or  slumber,  she  was  "journey-proud."  And  yet  that 
journey  was  over  but  a  few  feet  of  peaceful  water,  to  that 
strip  of  sand  that  had  paled  to  a  ghostly  white  in  the  silent 


220  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

hours  of  the  night.  So  she  sat  up  in  her  berth,  a  wistful 
little  figure  in  white,  with  two  dusky  braids  falling  over  her 
breast, .and  looked  at  it  through  the  porthole.  And  those 
mysteriously  waving  palms !  Did  any  sorrow  lie  hidden  in 
their  shadows !  What  was  that — the  cry  of  some  night  bird 
of  ill  omen?  And  that  far-off  faint  roar!  The  slender 
figure  shivered.  Would  he  be  there  to  meet  her  at  dawn? 
Had  anything  happened  to  him  ?  Could  he  have  .  .  . ! 


CHAPTER  XXII 
JOURNEY'S  END   IN  


DAWN  came — one  moment,  a  silvery  grey  mystery,  and 
the  very  next,  it  seemed  to  the  girl  watching  it  on  deck,  an 
ecstacy  of  rose  that  flushed  the  whole  palpitating  East ;  then 
a  flood  of  rippling  golden  fire  that  fringed  the  mountain 
tops  and  palms,  and  smote  the  waters  until  one  wondered 
why  hill  and  vale  and  sea  did  not  burst  into  song.  But  it 
was  a  song  in  colour,  without  notes  or  words — glorious, 
triumphant ! 

Under  the  spell  the  girl  stood  as  motionless  as  the  carven 
figurehead  on  the  prow  beneath  her.  Her  dark  eyes  ex 
panded  to  the  beauty  of  the  morning,  her  cheeks  mirrored 
its  flush. 

But  only  for  fleeting  moments  can  we  stand  upon  the 
mountain  tops.  The  black  eyes  fell  to  the  strip  of  sand.  No 
life  was  visible  except  the  wild  sea-birds  wading  in  the 
foam.  No  one  save  the  sailors  of  the  watch  were  on  deck. 
Why  didn't  Cap'n  Harve  come  up !  Why  should  he  sleep 
on  this  morning  of  all  mornings !  There  was  a  very  reason 
able  unreason  in  her  vexation. 

W7ell  he  should  have  his  alarm  clock.  She  turned  and 
struck,  as  viciously  as  such  a  sweet-natured  maiden  could, 

221 


222  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

not  three  but  thirteen  bells !  "Clang,  clang,  clang,"  rang  the 
brazen  notes  over  the  water,  startling  the  wild  sea  fowl  into 
curious,  circling  flight  around  the  topmasts,  and  frightening 
the  long-legged  herons  from  their  fishing  by  the  water's 
edge. 

Disturbed  at  this  unsea worthy  distortion  of  time,  the 
hands  and  Cap'n  Harve  came  tumbling  on  deck,  half -dressed, 
like  firemen  after  an  alarm,  only  reversing  the  direction  of 
their  flight. 

"Here,  here,  what's  up — somebody  three  sheets  in  the 
wind,  striking  thirteen  bells?"  the  skipper's  voice  boomed 
out. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Uncle  Harve,  don't  you 
know " 

"To  be  sure,  my  dear,  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself." 

"But  hurry,  Uncle  Harve,  hurry,  tell  'em  to  lower  the 
boat!" 

He  tried  to  restrain  her. 

"Better  get  a  bite  of  breakfast  first.  Cook's  coming  from 
the  galley  now." 

But  she  stamped  her  foot  on  deck,  again  a  little  viciously 
for  Sally.  "No,  siree !  Not  a  mouthful  till  we  go 
ashore." 

It  was  nothing  but  rank  mutiny.  Still  there  are  times 
when  even  a  self-respecting  skipper  may  surrender.  A  boat's 
crew  manned  the  oars,  the  boat  dropped  from  the  davits 
to  the  water  and  sped  towards  shore,  each  of  Sally's  one 
hundred  and  nine  pounds  as  tense  as  a  coxswain's  in  a  New 
London  race. 


JOURNEY'S  END  IN  ?  223 

They  beached  the  craft,  and  the  girl  leapt  on  the  sand. 
Up  and  down  its  almost  perfect  curve  the  black  eyes  swept, 
then  watched  the  break  in  the  palm-grove. 

It  was  an  archway  leading  into  a  green  paradise.  But  the 
girl  did  not  drink  in  the  loveliness  which  she  could  see  be 
yond.  Her  trembling  eyes  were  thirsting  for  another  sight — 
that  of  a  youth  about  five  feet  nine  or  thereabouts ;  in  wide- 
bottomed  sailor's  trousers;  with  body  a  trifle  square-built 
but  very  straight;  a  little  deliberate  in  speech  and  thought, 
but  very  sure  in  each ;  a  clear-shaven  face,  also  a  little  square 
at  chin  and  temples — with  the  rough  red  and  tan  of  the  open 
on  it ;  and  honest,  never-shrinking  blue  eyes,  holding  just 
the  right  measure  of  devotion  and  boldness  to  win  and  keep 
the  heart  of  a  girl. 

Fitting  him  perfectly,  was  a  homely,  old-fashioned  name 
by  which  she  had  often  called  him  in  those  moments  that 
verged  as  near  on  tenderness  as  shy  young  lovers  ever  dare, 
the  restraint  making  more  precious  the  slightest  gesture  or 
word  of  affection.  "Ben  True-Blue"  it  was,  and  that  the 
trembling  lips  uttered  now,  as  she  stood  on  the  sand,  straight 
and  graceful  as  a  young  silver-birch  in  spring,  and  trembling 
like  that,  too. 

But  instead  of  the  picture  which  her  memory  painted, 
through  the  archway  came  a  swarthy  savage — at  best  a 
figure  semi-civilized — bare  of  leg  and  girt  about  the  trunks 
and  thighs  with  an  untanned  skin.  He  was  shaggy-bearded 
and  burnt  to  a  coppery-brown.  Over  his  back  hung  a  crude 
bow,  and  from  his  arms  two  braces  of  wild  birds.  On  his 
shoulder  swayed  a  giant  macaw  of  many  brilliant  colours,  and 


224  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

at  his  heels  trotted  an  odd  half -tamed  little  animal,  a  cross 
between  a  ground-hog  and  a  prairie-dog. 

Evidently  the  barbarian-hunter  had  been  called  from  his 
chase,  after  a  plunge  in  some  silver  spring  in  the  cool  of  the 
morning.  Perhaps  he  had  been  disturbed  by  the  ringing 
echoes  of  the  thirteen  ship  bells  which  Sally's  determined 
hand  had  struck,  and  so  had  hurried  down  from  the  hills  to 
the  beach  to  see  ...  a  ship  riding  at  anchor  in  the  bay, 
sailors  cautiously  exploring  the  underbrush,  and  on  the  shore 
— so  still  she  stood — the  statue  of  some  Northern  nymph ! 

Had  he  gotten  to  that  ?  Was  he  seeing  things  ?  No, — the 
zephyr  from  the  waters  curled  the  blue  skirt  about  the  slender 
ankles.  She  swayed !  It  was  not  plaster  or  any  cold  image  of 
iron  or  wood,  but  fashioned  of  warm  human  flesh. 

And  the  bronzed  savage,  with  the  skin  and  slain  wild  birds, 
in  turn  became  as  motionless  as  the  graceful  trunks  of  the 
palms  that  framed  his  picturesque  figure. 

Suddenly  his  voice  rang  out,  perhaps  a  little  strange  from 
the  long  silences,  but  not  in  uncouth  gutturals,  just  in  honest 
down  east  Yankee. 

"You — you've  come !" 

At  the  cry  her  hands  flew  out,  then  clutched  spasmodically 
and  flew  to  her  breast  as  if  something  stifled  her.  She  rocked 
a  little  where  she  stood,  for  the  reaction  was  too  violent.  It 
required  such  a  swift  adjustment  to  see  in  the  bizarre  figure 
the  clean-cut  sailor-boy  who  had  clasped  her  in  his  arms 
under  Salthaven  Light. 

But  before  he  had  run  three  paces  towards  her,  something 
within  told  her  that  all  was  well.  The  swift  readjustment 


JOURNEY'S  END  IN  ?  225 

was  made.  The  arms  flew  out,  shaking  a  little,  but  waiting 
to  fold  him  to  her  heart.  Had  he  looked  as  uncouth  as  a 
South  Sea  cannibal,  he  could  have  rested  his  head  there. 
That  voice  was  enough,  and  beyond  the  tangled  beard,  and 
swarthy  skin,  and  savage  dress,  the  eyes  leapt  to  hers,  as 
blue  and  brave  and  winning  as  of  old.  It  was  her  Ben,  her 
boy! 

In  this  ever-shifting  old  world,  with  its  countless  part 
ings  and  reunions,  there  are  many  sorts  of  journeys'  ends — 
and  lovers'  meetings.  In  the  reverberating  train-shed,  on 
the  subway  stairs,  on  the  rose-covered  porch,  or  the  com 
monplace  corners  of  the  ugly  city,  Heaven  revisits  earth 
and  angels  hover  lightly  in  the  air  when  severed  hearts  beat 
together  again.  But  the  thrill  and  joy  of  all  are  weak  com 
pared  to  that  of  a  castaway  sailor  and  his  lass,  on  the  shining 
sands  of  an  unknown  isle  in  an  uncharted  sea. 


The  old  boy  and  girl  shyness  had  taken  wing.  Young  as 
they  were,  in  trouble  and  sorrow  they  had  attained  the 
heart's  full  stature.  The  unsatisfied  yearnings  of  the  past 
quickened  to  fulfilment  in  a  long  embrace,  and  at  last  the 
meeting  of  the  lips. 

Then  the  head  sunk  a  little  lower,  the  slender,  blue  serge 
arms  around  the  bare,  brown  shoulders,  the  waving  black 
strands  against  the  auburn  of  his  unkempt  beard.  He 
stroked  the  curls  tenderly,  while  she  quivered  to  him,  half- 
sobbing. 

"Thank  God!    You've  come."    He  spoke  with  difficulty, 


226  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

partly  because  of  a  heart  too  full,  and  partly  because  speech 
was  so  unaccustomed  a  thing. 

"It's  been  pretty  long,  dear.  How  you  stood  it,  I  can't 
see." 

"I  did  begin  to  think  I'd  never  see  you  again.  But  I 
couldn't  let  myself  think  that." 

She  looked  up  at  his  eyes,  for  the  beard  was  still  strange. 
But  all  she  could  say  now  was : 

"My  dear,  my  dear !" 

Then  she  almost  broke  down.  Forgive  her,  for  she  had 
stood  up  so  sturdily  through  it  all.  Again  he  stroked  the 
dark  hair. 

"But,  sweetheart,  it's  worth  the  waiting." 

There  was  agreement  in  her  answering  kiss.  A  life  may 
have  its  sorrows  and  yet  be  very  fortunate,  if  it  has  had 
its  big  moments.  But  that  lot  which  does  not  number  some 
among  its  memories,  no  matter  how  free  from  care  and 
smooth  the  path,  is  indeed  a  tragedy. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
WEEK-ENDING  IN   PARADISE 

IT  was  a  strange  setting  to  Ben  after  that  of  the  year 
past.  Heavy  ship's  timbers  overhead;  a  civilized  seat  sup 
porting  him ;  real  crockery,  knives  and  forks  and  a  steaming 
breakfast  from  the  galley-stove ;  the  grace  Sally  always  in 
sisted  on,  even  on  shipboard ;  and  kindly  voices  saying, 
"Come  fill  up  your  plate  Ben,"  "Please  pass  that,"  and  all 
the  familiar  expressions  of  daily  human  intercourse. 

It  seemed  as  if  ages  had  passed  since,  in  some  long  for 
gotten  existence,  he  had  felt  the  exhilaration  of  a  ship's  rise 
and  fall  on  the  water,  heard  the  shuffle  of  feet  on  deck,  and 
the  ring  of  ship's  bells.  And  all  the  while,  above  the  rough 
seafaring  talk  of  the  men  beside  him,  rose  the  voice  of  the 
girl  like  a  melody  feathering  their  full-throated  chorus. 

"Sliced  bacon,  fried  spuds,  and  hot  coffee,  look  pretty  poor, 
I'll  bet— eh  Ben?" 

"They  look  good  to  me,  Captain  Harve,  and  especially  this 
briar-pipe  and  real  matches,"  he  replied,  just  a  little  wist 
fully.  How  odd  and  yet  how  homelike  the  colloquialisms 
sounded  after  the  long  silences !  How  easily  his  own  lips 
fell  into  them!  And  how  good  was  human  companionship, 
the  sharing  of  confidences,  especially  with  the  one  whom  he 
cared  for  more  than  all  else  in  the  world! 

227 


228  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

There  wasn't  much  space  between  Ben's  seat  and  Sally's. 
The  girl  ate  little  herself.  Somehow,  women  seem  to  feed 
their  own  spiritual  flames  best  by  stoking  the  physical  fires 
of  their  mates.  And  with  the  avidity  of  the  woman  long 
denied  the  right  to  care  for  a  loved  one's  needs,  she  was 
filling  Ben's  plate,  with  more  than  even  his  appetite,  whetted 
by  ranging  the  hills  at  sunrise,  could  take  care  of. 

After  breakfast,  Ben  called  the  mate  aside.  He  suddenly 
recollected  that  there  was  such  a  custom  in  the  world  as 
shaving. 

"Can  you  lend  me  a  razor  and  some  civilized  duds,  so  I'll 
look  like  a  human  once  more?" 

"That  is  hardly  a  proper  courtin'  rig,"  the  other  com 
mented,  "With  them  bushwhacker  whiskers  a  Maori  wench 
'ud  kiss  you  for  her  mate." 

And  he  gave  the  castaway  a  jocular  dig  in  the  ribs,  but 
the  Captain  came  to  Ben's  rescue,  taking  him  into  his  own 
cabin.  Then,  observing  the  toughness  of  the  unwelcome 
beard,  he  actually  ordered  hot  water  from  the  galley. 

Hot  water,  soap  that  floated,  razor,  and  strop!  All  these 
hair-splitting  conveniences  of  civilization !  For  a  man  fresh 
from  the  wilds  the  shock  was  almost  overpowering. 

Even  when,  a  little  later,  the  boy  and  girl  sat  before  his 
hut,  and  he  wore  the  cleanest  of  white  duck,  the  crude  moc 
casins  still  encased  his  feet.  Had  he  even  attempted  the 
heavy  shoes  Captain  Brent  had  lent  him,  he  would  have  been 
lamed  for  life.  Still,  it  was  a  considerable  improvement,  for, 
shorn  of  its  auburn  thicket  of  beard,  the  pleasant  lines  of 
the  jaw  now  emerged,  clean-cut  and  firm  as  of  old,  though 


WEEK-ENDING  IN  PARADISE  229 

the  eyes  had  a  strained,  far  away  look,  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
grasp  the  real  happiness  that  had  come  to  him  after  the  long 
wait,  and  could  not.  He  was  slower  than  ever  of  speech. 

That  look  went  straight  to  Sally's  heart — it  told  so  elo 
quently  of  the  loneliness  and  despair  of  the  past  year.  So 
she  strove  to  cheer  him,  her  laughter  and  raillery  rippling 
lightheartedly  under  the  waving  palms,  and  by  the  waters 
of  the  spring,  until  the  little  "gab-birds,"  the  brilliant  paro- 
keets  with  their  Joseph's  coats  of  many  colours,  jabbered 
harshly  to  each  other,  asking  what  it  was  all  about. 

"So  I  let  Stell'  get  in  the  machine — she  has  a  crush  on 
Phil,  you  know — and  she  rode  off  proud  as  that  chesty  pea 
cock  on  his  lawn.  And  Ben,  I'd  bet  a  box  of  Huylers  to  a 
five  cent  bag  of  Comby's  horehound  drops,  she  let  him  kiss 
her  when  they  got  to  that  stretch  of  road  in  the  pines —  But 
there,  that's  mean.  Stell's  all  right." 

Yes  there  had  been  a  plump,  good-natured  girl,  always 
flirting  with  the  boys,  and  there  were  such  things  as  Comby's 
horehound  drops,  and  Huyler's  bonbons,  and  high-powered 
machines  called  automobiles.  And  however  phantasmagori- 
cal  their  existence  seemed  in  this  green  island  paradise,  there 
surely  was,  sitting  before  him,  cross-legged  on  a  bed  of 
crumbled  fern,  a  girl  with  black  hair,  with  the  sea's  own 
wave  in  it,  and  a  middy  blouse  and  a  scarlet  tie — and  in  her 
dancing  eyes  gleams  like  the  wave-crests,  or  phosphor  flashes 
on  the  midnight  sea — and  in  them,  too,  a  look  of  love  for  him. 
And  on  that  whimsical  girlish  mouth  there  flashed,  in  and  out 
between  her  banterings,  a  look  of  sympathy  and  tenderness 
that  was  meant  for  him  alone. 


230  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Again  she  asked  the  question :  "How  did  you  ever  stand 
it,  dear?"  Only  once  in  the  old  life  had  she  ever  so  called 
him,  and  that  was  by  the  Lighthouse,  and  then  very  shyly. 
Today  endearments  came  readily  to  her  lips. 

The  words  came  far  less  easily  to  his,  in  this  tete-a-tete 
under  the  palms.  Hungrily  he  drank  in  each  note,  thinking 
how  like  they  were  to  the  lighter  ones  of  the  waterfall  back 
in  the  mountain,  which  he  had  called  "Sally's  Bridal  Veil." 
He  must  show  it  to  her  in  the  morning — and  the  mystery ! 
It  was  the  first  time  that  day  that  he  had  thought  of  it,  and 
it  had  been  so  much  in  his  mind. 

Then  he  found  speech. 

"I  didn't  dare  lose  my  nerve.  I  made  myself  believe  that 
I'd  get  back  sometime,  though  I  never  dreamed  of  this!" 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  he  sighed,  which  was  an  unus 
ual  thing  for  a  husky  chap  not  "long"  on  self-pity.  But  it 
was  like  the  sigh  of  one  long  thirsting  and  parched — after  a 
full  draught  that  brings  a  Heavenly  relief.  Then  for  more 
earthly  solace,  he  filled  the  heavy-bowl  pipe,  the  lighting  of 
which  the  girl  accomplished  with  a  skill  born  of  long  prac 
tice  in  waiting  on  "her  menfolks."  She  had  always  "liked 
to  see  men  smoke" — for  the  pleasure  it  gave  them  and — some 
times — for  the  reprieve  she  gained  for  herself  from  uncer 
tain  tempers.  But  a  rare  pleasure  and  privilege  it  was  now — 
this  and  all  the  other  little  attentions  for  this  boy.  So  she 
watched  him  with  a  contentment  that  quite  equalled  his,  as  he 
puffed,  puffed,  away,  and  dreamily  continued : 

"Mother  used  to  say,  'work  is  a  blessing.'  I  never  was 
lazy  exactly,  but  I  never  realized  she  was  right  until  I  was 


WEEK-ENDING  IN  PARADISE  231 

cast  away  here.  There  wasn't  so  much  necessary  work  to 
do,  besides  getting  food  and  making  shelter  when  the  storms 
came,  but  I  made  up  things  to  do.  It  was  better  than  going 
crazy." 

"My  brave  boy,"  and  Sally  bent  over  and  kissed  him. 
Then,  with  that  pardonable  vanity  in  women,  the  most  beauti 
ful  of  all  vanities  in  the  world,  she  asked : 

"And  did  thinking  of  me  help,  Ben?" 

She  received  the  answer  she  wanted.  It  made  her  own 
cup  of  happiness  overflow. 

"Well — I  just  guess — if  it  hadn't  been  for  you!" 

A  little  later  she  asked: 

"Ben,  whatever  are  those  nicks  in  that  circle  of  palms  ?" 

"Can't  you  guess  ?  There  are  twelve  of  'em —  Count  the 
nicks." 

The  girl  rose  and  with  her  pretty  finger  reckoned  their 
number. 

"Thirty,  thirty-one — why  that's  your  calendar." 

"Yes,  they're  my  date-palms — though  they're  really  cocoas. 
Gee,  I've  forgotten  today's." 

He  cut  in  the  thirteenth  palm,  then  asked  her : 

"Want  to  see  where  I  live?" 

"Oh,  Ben,  let's."  At  the  little  girlish  nod  of  assent  he 
smiled  tenderly — it  was  so  like  old  times — the  stout-hearted 
woman  whom  God  had  given  back  to  him  was  still,  and  al 
ways  would  be,  partly  a  child,  whom  he  must  care  for  and 
protect. 

"Why  this  is  a  beautiful  house,  how  ever  did  you  build 
it  ?"  she  cried. 


232  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"With  these.  This  is  a  spade,  you  see.  Pretty  crude  but 
it  did  the  business.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  take  a  limb 
of  a  tree  and  shape  it  with  a  knife,  split  it  at  this  end, 
sharpen  a  flat  stone  by  rubbing  it  against  another,  then 
fasten  it  in  the  cleavage.  Liana  vines  make  good  ropes — and 
there  you  are.  Of  course  the  spade  got  loose  from  the  handle 
sometimes,  but  I  didn't  need  to  hurry." 

"And  this  is  your  hammer  and  your  axe — and  my,  but  this 
is  a  beautiful  sitting  room — and  real  chairs  and  cocoanut 
bowls !"  then  shyly — "I  wouldn't  mind  keeping  house  in  that 
cute  little  place." 

For  answer,  he  put  his  arms  around  her.  There,  in  the 
little  one-room  hut  built  of  tropical  trees,  the  westering  sun 
shining  in  the  doorway,  their  lips  met,  not  in  the  old  boy  and 
girl  kiss  of  first  love  but  the  maturer  sealing  of  their  promise 
after  long  years  of  waiting. 

Across  Rainbow  Bay  and  far  beyond,  the  sun  changed 
the  liquid  sapphire  of  the  waters  to  rippling  gold  as  he 
paused  on  the  brink,  and  the  Captain's  cheery  hail  rang 
through  the  grove. 

On  the  beach,  Spanish  Dick  was  turning  Ben's  brace  of 
wild  birds  on  a  spit  over  a  fire,  whose  rosy  flickerings  added 
a  warm  human  touch  to  the  wilderness  of  tropical  colours  all 
around  them. 

As  they  were  finishing  the  last  morsels  Ben  said  to  Sally : 

"Oh,  Sally.  I  didn't  tell  you  but  this  island  has  a  mys 
tery " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
UNDER   THE   TARPAULIN 

"'No,  Monsieur,  you  have  been  our  guest — pleeze " 

Linda,  standing  before  the  doorway  leading  into  the  tap 
room  of  the  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues,  seized  his  open  hand 
with  both  her  own,  closing  his  fingers  on  the  franc  notes. 
Then  she  patted  the  back  of  his  clenched  fist,  a  little  coquet- 
tishly  yet  very  gently,  and  pushed  it  away  as  if  the  matter 
were  quite  settled. 

"But,  Mademoiselle,  you  have  done  so  much!"  And  in 
turn  he  seized  her  hands,  trying  to  force  the  notes  into  the 
unwilling  fingers. 

"Pleeze,  Monsieur,  I  ask  you  again  not  to  hurt  me — 
here." 

Her  hand  sought  her  heart,  not  at  all  in  affectation  but  in 
the  natural  way  of  her  race.  The  corners  of  her  mouth 
trembled.  The  soft  brown  eyes,  which  seemed  as  if  they 
must  have  been  stolen  from  some  Madonna's  portrait,  that  is 
when  the  more  earthly  provocativeness  had  fled,  trembled, 
too.  Farewells  were  such  ultimate  things  to  one  of  her  tem 
perament — and  they  were  indeed  likely  to  be  final  in  this 
out  of  the  way  corner  of  the  world,  especially  in  the  casual 
Cafe  of  Many  Tongues. 

233 


234  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  courtyard  at  this  early  hour  was  quite  deserted.  She 
withdrew  into  the  triangle  of  shade  under  the  ancient  roof. 
The  line  of  demarcation  between  light  and  shadow  was 
cleanly  cut  by  the  sharp  rays  of  the  sun.  As  she  passed 
within  the  shelter,  the  faint  mirage  of  silken  floss  on  her 
cheeks  vanished.  They  became  deep  olive,  dark  crimson- 
flushed,  once  more.  She  was  a  lovely  thing,  leaning  back 
against  the  grey  stone  of  the  doorway.  But  under  the 
bandage  that  still  bound  his  delicately  moulded  forehead, 
the  eyes  of  the  stranger,  darker  and  more  sombre  than  her 
liquid  own,  were  not  melted  by  her  beauty.  They  were 
looking  far  out  over  the  harbour  and  beyond  even  that. 

But  hers  were  travelling  over  the  aristocratic  outline  of 
the  features  and  the  slender  figure,  very  strong  under  the 
suppleness.  The  suit  of  white  had  been  carefully  mended 
and  pressed  by  her  own  hands.  Fate  had  been  very  hard  on 
him — she  thought — it  had  been  very  hard  on  both  of  them. 

His  eyes  strayed  back  again  from  the  shimmering  waters 
and  quickened  to  sympathy  at  her  plea. 

"Very  well,  Mademoiselle — I  will  settle  with  your  father." 

She  looked  at  the  figure  bent  over  the  wine-casks  within. 
She  was  sure  he  had  heard,  but  she  shrugged  her  shoulder 
scornfully.  Her  arm  barred  further  progress  through  the 
doorway. 

The  inn-keeper  deposited  his  measure  on  the  stone  pave 
ments,  wiping  his  hands,  partly  from  necessity,  rather  more 
from  obsequiousness,  on  the  greasy  apron  which  covered 
the  thread-bare  khaki  trousers  and  the  faded  red  sash  gird 
ing  his  middle.  He  was  very  lean,  and  dried  up  like  a  parched 


UNDER  THE  TARPAULIN  235 

cicada  in  a  burning  August,  but  the  abnormally  long,  claw- 
like  hands  were  sinewy-corded  and  strong.  That  gesture  of 
the  hands  on  the  apron,  and  the  subservient  bow,  so  entirely 
out  of  key  with  the  proud  poise  of  the  woman  standing  with 
her  graceful  arm  across  the  entrance,  confirmed  the  French 
man's  suspicions  of  a  probable  step-fatherhood  instead  of  a 
nearer  relationship. 

"The  illustrious  Sefior  will  be  leaving  tonight,"  the  inn 
keeper  ventured  with  an  illy-assumed  graciousness,  that 
clawlike  hand  instinctively  stretching  out  from  the  apron. 

"Yes,  I  go  tonight.  Pierre  will  come  for  my  little  lug 
gage.  Your  daughter,  who  has  been  most  kind,  has  refused, 
but  here  is  my  reckoning." 

Again  Linda  pushed  away  the  hand  with  the  notes. 

"Father — not  from  him.  I  tell  you — he  is  our  guest.  You 
know  what  evil  comes  to  those  who  are  misers  with  their 
hospitality." 

She  turned  towards  the  younger  man. 

"The  good  padre  in  the  big  church  up  yonder  says  to  give 
of  our  best  to  strangers,  even  so  we  serve  angels,  not  know 
ing." 

The  wistful  smile  tingled  with  little  thrills  of  coquetry. 

"Perhaps  you  are  one  of  them,  Monsieur.    Who  knows?" 

"No,  Linda,  only  the  evil  one  of  misfortune  travels  with 
me." 

Her  smile  faded  when  she  saw  the  sympathy  in  his  look 
— and — nothing  more. 

The  expression  on  the  innkeeper's  face  changed,  too.  The 
smile  which  had  a  flavour  like  his  thinnest  sourest  wines  and 


236  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

looked  like  the  diacritical  mark  that  indicates  the  soft 
vowel,  dropped  abruptly  to  an  unpromising  downward 
curve. 

He  retired  inside,  the  unnecessary  clatter  of  drinking- 
vessels,  the  scrunching  of  shifted  table-legs,  and  his  mut 
tered  imprecations,  betraying  his  anger.  By  the  seven  twists 
in  the  devil's  tail — he  had  been  tricked,  but  he  would  get 
even !  A  few  red  welts  across  her  soft  body  and  she  would 
sing  another  tune !  Then  he  would  waylay  their  guest — bah  ! 
— and  then  those  beautiful  franc-notes  would  be  smoothed 
out  and  placed  lovingly  with  their  bed-fellows,  in  that  hole  in 
the  wall  of  which  she  did  not  know. 

With  a  vengeful  toe,  Linda  crushed  the  hairy  tarantella 
that  crawled  across  the  fissures  of  the  courtyard,  as  if  end 
ing  by  proxy  the  evil  life  of  her  guardian,  or  whoever  he  was 
that  ruled  over  her  fate.  She  was  very  careful,  however,  of 
the  tiny  lizard  that  paused  on  the  knife-edge  of  the  shadow 
to  blink  his  bright  eyes  at  the  sun. 

"So  you  go  tonight." 

"Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

"And  I  will  not  see  you  again — for  ever  so  long — maybe 
never !" 

"I  will  come  again,  some  day,  when  my  fortunes  change — 
to  thank  you — and  repay." 

"It  is  not  that,  Monsieur,  but  I  will  be  ver'  lonely." 

She  paused.  In  the  deserted  courtyard  the  only  sounds 
were  the  angry  bustle  of  her  father  and  the  soft  lapping  of 
the  water  of  the  harbour  against  the  grey  walls. 

"How  can  you  go — without  the  little  map,  which  was  stolen 


UNDER  THE  TARPAULIN  237 

by  that  wicked  man  with  the  scar  in  his  face — who  almost 
killed  you?'"  she  shuddered. 

"I  can  find  the  place,  Linda." 

"You  may  be  lost — drowned.  The  sea  is  not  always  kind, 
mon  cher." 

"Even  so,  it  would  not  end  much.  But  it  is  only  a  voyage 
of  forty  leagues !  I  will  see  you,  before  I  go." 

He  passed  through  the  ancient,  crazily  leaning  gateway, 
and  started  up  the  street,  when  he  heard  a  woman's  scream, 
and  hurried  back. 

The  sullenness  of  the  innkeeper  had  given  way  to  violent 
wrath.  One  clawlike  hand  was  clutched  in  her  luxuriant  hair, 
the  other  held  the  heavy  leg  of  a  broken  stool,  and  this  was 
falling  again  and  again  with  a  dull  thud  on  the  girl's  body. 

It  was  strange  what  strength  those  slender  fingers  of  the 
Frenchman  possessed.  They  twisted  the  dried-up,  grass 
hopper  figure  of  Linda's  tormentor  into  a  praying  heap  on 
the  floor,  then  threw  the  offending  bank-notes  on  the  pave 
ment  beside  him. 

"Remember,  Juan  Ferrando,  my  ears  can  hear  a  very  long 
way  and  if  you  ever  so  much  as  crook  one  of  those  evil 
talons  of  yours  at  the  girl — I'll  return!" 

Then  he  strode  out  of  the  cafe  and  on  up  the  street,  paus 
ing  here  and  there  under  the  striped  awnings  of  the  bazaars 
that  lined  the  malodorous  street.  It  took  many  impatient  and 
long-drawn-out  bargainings  with  the  cunning-eyed,  brown- 
skinned  merchants  before  the  necessary  purchases  for  the 
voyage  were  completed,  and  twilight  fell  before  he  turned 
northward  again. 


238  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  night  breeze  stirred  the  fronds  of  the  palm  above  the 
street  wall  of  the  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues ;  the  jasmine  scented 
the  heavy  tepid  air,  and  glasses  clinked  lazily,  but  Linda  was 
not  to  be  seen  circling  among  the  clusters  of  rosily-twinkling 
cigarettes. 

He  ascended  the  flight  of  stairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door 
of  the  room  where  she  had  cared  for  him.  There  was  no 
answer. 

In  the  dark  passageway  behind  him,  he  heard  an  almost 
noiseless  footfall  and  turned  to  greet  her  as  he  thought,  but 
instead  of  her  soft  fingers  a  knife  descended,  slashing  his 
sleeve  about  the  wrist.  Again  the  swift  agility  and  strength 
of  the  Frenchman  were  surprising,  and  the  innkeeper's 
gnarled  body  crashed  down  the  stairway,  his  head  banging 
on  the  stone  edge  of  each  step  as  he  rolled  to  the  bottom,  to 
the  very  feet  of  the  sailor,  Pierre. 

The  latter  turned  to  bind  and  gag  him,  but  there  was  no 
necessity  for  this.  One  clawlike  hand  opened  and  closed 
spasmodically  twice — then  fell.  The  head  with  its  surly 
grin  frozen  on  the  thin  lips,  lay  very  still  in  the  dark  puddle. 

"Quick,  Pierre — this  way !" 

The  two  entered  the  narrow  room,  gathered  up  his  luggage, 
crowding  it  into  a  sailor's  sack,  as  the  jabbering  voices  over 
the  huddled  body  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  gathered  in  volume. 

Even  then  the  stranger  risked  a  precious  half -minute  in 
scribbling  a  note  of  farewell  to  Linda,  which  he  placed  be 
fore  the  sorrowful  crucifix  on  the  wall,  opposite  her  bed. 

It  was  only  fourteen  feet  from  the  window  to  the  alley 
and,  throwing  the  sack  before  them,  they  achieved  it  in  turn. 


UNDER  THE  TARPAULIN  239 

As  they  passed  around  the  corner  of  the  wall,  very  cautiously, 
the  brim  of  a  high-crowned  panama,  a  swarthy  forehead,  and 
a  pair  of  glittering  eyes,  looked  over  the  window-ledge  from 
which  they  had  just  leaped. 

Curving  in  and  out  to  avoid  the  worm-like  snarls  of  naked 
bodies,  on  they  ran.  Once  Pierre's  heavy  foot  crunched  the 
emaciated  foreleg  of  some  crouching  cur,  whose  yelp  of  pain 
awoke  a  chorus  of  sympathetic  howls,  starting  the  sluggish 
sleepers  to  their  feet,  and  causing  the  pursuers  streaming 
from  the  gate-way  of  the  inn,  to  pause  and  cross  themselves 
shudderingly. 

A  half-mile  south,  they  left  the  squalid  street,  curving 
down  a  lane  at  whose  foot  lay  a  wharf,  with  a  launch  moored 
alongside. 

"It  has  not  changed  at  all,  the  place,"  said  Pierre's  em 
ployer  as  the  engine  started  sparking,  and  a  rod  of  water 
showed  clear  between  their  stern  and  the  wharf,  "Everyone 
leaves  the  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues  quickly — or  not  at  all." 

They  glided  over  the  sailless  roadstead,  past  the  funny 
little  fort,  dignified  now  into  a  lovely  picturesqueness  by  the 
rising  moon,  and  slipped  out  of  the  harbour.  With  the  moon, 
the  wind  and  waves  freshened,  and  the  prow  rose  and  fell, 
not  breasting  the  rollers  gracefully  as  the  gulls  and  all  sailing 
craft,  but  sharply,  with  a  resounding  slap  under  her  nose. 

Forward,  the  tarpaulin  moved. 

"What's  that,  Pierre?" 

"Muskrats,  Monsieur." 

Again  a  heaving  of  the  canvas,  which  no  rodent's  body 
could  have  caused.  The  seaman  crossed  himself. 


240  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"It  is  alive !" 

Suddenly  the  top  of  the  canvas  rounded  as  though  it  con 
cealed  a  head,  and  towered  over  the  cockpit  to  the  height  a 
human  form  would  have  reached. 

And  now  Pierre's  whole  body  was  shaking  faster  than  the 
vibrating  engine,  so  that  he  could  scarcely  outline  the  cross 
on  his  frightened  heart. 

"Saints  deliver  us!  It  is  a  spirit — the  man  we  have 
killed !" 

The  tarpaulin  parted.  It  was  no  evil  face.  The  wavering 
tresses  were  covered  with  moonlit  spray. 

"Linda!" 

"Even  I,  Monsieur!" 

"But,  Mademoiselle,  you  cannot  go " 

"Why  not — the  old  man  he  beat  me.  Would  you  have  me 
go  back  to  die?  If  I  go  back  I  will  surely  die,  for  if  he  do 
not,  I  will  kill  myself." 

"He  will  not  hurt  you  any  more,  my  child." 

"What— you  have  killed  him?" 

"Yes — there  was  no  other  way " 

"Gracias?" 

The  cry  was  a  little  savage  for  one  whose  heart  was  so 
tender  to  those  she  loved,  but  then  she  rapidly  uttered  a 
prayer,  and  a  moment  later  she  rose  from  her  knees. 

"There  is  no  one  who  cares  for  me — back  there,  dear  one." 

"But  you  do  not  know  where  we  are  going,  Linda." 

"Yes,  to  the  island,  which,  you  tell  me,  is  so  like  Heaven 
and  yet  as  dangerous  as  the  evil  place — but  I  do  not 

rOTV> " 

care 


UNDER  THE  TARPAULIN  241 

She  laughed  as  lightheartedly  as  the  waves  slapping  against 
their  fragile  cockleshell,  but  there  was  reverence  in  her  voice 
as  she  repeated : 

"Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go.    Thy  people " 

"They  are  all  gone,  Linda !" 

"Then  let  me  be  'thy  people.'  " 

"It  is  not  right." 

"As  you  will — I  love  you — as  a  sister  I  will  go  with  you 
—until " 

Not  daring  to  finish  the  sentence  she  paused,  then  crept 
back  to  where  he  stood  and,  taking  one  hand  from  the  spoke, 
she  pressed  it  against  her  cheek. 

"Beloved,"  was  all  she  said,  and  he,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  do,  stroked  her  hair,  still  glistening  with  the  white  and 
gold  pattern  of  the  spray  and  moon.  He  stroked  the  dark 
head  tenderly,  as  he  might  a  sister's — as  she  had  said,  she 
who  would  have  given  her  life  for  him. 

Then  away  from  the  moonpath,  straight  into  the  heart  of 
the  darker  west,  they  voyaged. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
OVER   THE   TRAIL 

" the  bleaching  bones." 

"Human  skeletons?" 

"Yes — they've  been  there  for  years — unburied." 

"Show  me  the  trail !" 

"You  won't  thank  me  if  I  do,  Sally." 

"I'm  game,  Ben." 

"I  tell  you  it's  spooky." 

"Not  in  the  bright  sunlight." 

"It's  pretty  shivery  even  then.  This  island  is  beautiful 
enough,  but  there  is  something  strange  about  it.  It's  the  most 
real  unreal  place  I've  ever  seen,  and  I've  been  in  some  queer 
places.  It  stands  out  clear  before  us  now,  shore  and  green 
trees  like  a  stairway,  and  that  blue  mountain  over  there — 
yet  somehow  you  expect  it  every  minute  to  melt  away  in  a 
mist." 

"Spanish  Dick  says  it's  covered  with  a  mist  like  a  veil 
with  gold  stars  in  it — and  it's  a  floating  island — nothing 
under  it — no  foundation  of  any  kind — just  clear  water " 

"It  does  have  that  feel,"  the  boy  went  on.  "At  night,  once 
or  twice,  I've  lain  here  on  the  fern  and  I've  felt  the  motion 
like  a  ship's  deck  on  a  calm  sea — but  always  moving  quietly 

242 


OVER  THE  TRAIL  245 

on.  I've  looked  up  through  the  palms,  and  the  stars  did  not 
keep  their  relative  positions  to  us,  and  the  branches  moved 
slowly  across  them,  as  if  we  were  sailing,  headed  west.  I 
was  wide  awake,  and  after  I  did  fall  asleep  and  later  woke 
up  in  the  morning,  it  has  always  seemed  as  if  we  had  drifted 
in  the  night,  on  and  on  over  the  horizon  into  some  sea  that 
was  never  charted." 

He  laughed  queerly,  then  added  : 

"Of  course  I  laid  it  to  nerves  and  the  loneliness." 

"Of  course,  dear,  but  did  you  see  the  seven  moons?'* 

"The  moons?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,  Spanish  Dick  says  there  are  seven." 

"He's  crazy— but " 

He  never  finished  the  sentence,  and  Sally  thinking  he 
had  had  enough  of  spookiness,  jumped  up.  "Let's  see  that 
trail,"  she  said. 

So  hand  and  hand,  as  all  true  lovers  at  one  and  twenty 
should,  they  passed  along  the  curve  of  the  shining  sands  to- 
Coral  Cove.  Behind  them  rose  the  terraces  of  the  green 
isle,  in  varying  shades  of  that  lovely  colour,  ascending  to  the 
cone  of  mountain,  tinted  richly  blue,  like  a  swallow's  wings, 
and  sharply  picked  out  against  a  turquoise  sky  as  innocent 
of  white  clouds  as  the  surrounding  sea  of  human  sail — all 
crystal  clear  and  yet  unreal,  as  the  boy  had  said. 

They  reached  Coral  Cove  and  there,  where  the  white  cliffs 
cast  cooling  shadows,  came  on  the  object  of  their  search. 

At  their  feet,  half  buried  in  the  sands,  white  and  pink- 
flushed  from  the  myriad  coral  particles  sifting  through  them, 
lay  the  bleaching  bones ;  the  perfect  bars  of  the  ribs,  and  the 


244  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

great  rusting  hoops  of  iron  casks,  showing  that  the  stillness 
of  the  island  had  once  been  broken  by  human  revellers. 

Yes,  even  in  the  clear  sunshine  it  was  mysterious  and 
shivery. 

Spanish  Dick  crossed  himself  hurriedly,  calling  on  the 
name  of  another  new  saint — Sally  did  not  hear — she  had  long 
ago  lost  count. 

"Now  mebbe,  Senorita,  you  believe  my  tale  of  the  islan'." 

"Of  course,  Dick,"  said  Sally  soothingly  over  her  shoulder, 
but  she  whispered  to  Ben: 

"Don't  think  I'm  silly  enough  to  really  believe  all  his 
stories,  but  they're  always  pretty  and  interesting,  and  that's 
the  main  thing.  I'd  rather  have  Spanish  Dick  with  me  any 
day  than  Aunt  Abigail,  who's  always  so  keen  for  the  truth, 
and  kills  all  the  joy  in  life.  And,  as  Cap'n  Harve  says,  we're 
young  only  once.  Say,  Ben,  does  it  ever  seem  as  though  we'd 
be  old  some  day  ?" 

The  boy  looked  at  her.  It  did  seem  impossible  that  Age 
could  ever  stiffen  that  lissom  figure  in  blue,  and  slacken  the 
blood  dancing  through  her  veins.  Could  he  really  wrinkle 
that  lovely-curved  forehead,  blanch  the  red  and  tan  of  those 
rounded  cheeks?  Could  he  have  the  heart  to  destroy  so  fair 
a  thing  ? 

There  was  a  little  look  of  impatience  about  her  averted 
face,  as  she  waited  for  an  answer  which,  womanlike,  she 
wanted  and  would  have.  The  boy  had  no  knack  of  pretty 
speeches  like  old  Mr.  Schauffler,  and  he  had  not  yet  found 
conversation  easy,  even  with  Sally,  after  that  year  on  the 
island. 


OVER  THE  TRAIL  245 

"Why  don't  you  say  something?  A  gentleman  should 
always  have  some  answer  for  a  question  like  that." 

But  all  Ben  could  say  was : 

"You'll  always  look  good  to  me,  Sally." 

It  was  quite  enough  and  she  gave  him  one  of  her  impulsive 
little  hugs. 

Little  cared  they  about  any  old  thing  like  Age,  even  though 
her  black  slipper  was  even  then  stirring  the  indisputable  evi 
dence  of  his  ghastly  chemistry,  there  in  the  sands. 

She  looked  down  at  the  blanching  skeletons. 

"It  is  spooky — but  let's  just  think  it's  a  picture  puzzle  to 
piece  together." 

Again  she  surveyed  the  skeletons,  then  the  hoops  half 
gnawed  away  by  rust. 

"This  part,  anyway,  is  easy." 

"Yes,"  Ben  answered,  "I  could  figure  out  that  much." 

"It's  like  a  story  book — isn't  it  ?"  she  went  on,  counting  the 
glistening  breast  bones  with  their  rows  of  ribs,  "there  were 
eleven  of  them,  real  pirates  and" — here  her  voice  deepened 
to  a  rich  contralto  as  she  unconsciously  assumed  the  phrase 
ology  of  the  old  tales — "they  must  have  counted  their  red 
gold  and  then  drank  deep  of  Jamaica  rum. 

"And  then  they  fell  out  and  quarrelled  over  the  gold,  and 
some  of  them  fell  on  the  others — and  when  it  was  over — 
there  were  left  here — those  eleven.'' 

"Yes,  Sally,  that's  just  the  way  I  figured  it." 

"But  how  long  ago  it  must  have  been!" 

"No  one  can  tell  that — but  it  was  a  long  time  ago." 

"I  wonder  how  many  escaped." 


246  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"That's  the  next  part  of  the  puzzle — let's  move  on." 

She  was  glad  to  do  that,  and  they  left  Coral  Cove,  Spanish 
Dick  giving  a  wide  curve  to  the  ghastly  relics,  quite  as  little 
yellow  Alfonso  who  trotted  behind  him  would  have  shunned 
a  feline  stranger.  They  clambered  up  the  limestone  cliffs 
and  found  the  old  trail,  leading  back  through  a  clump  of 
feathery  bamboos  and  thickets  of  tall  grasses,  to  another 
grove  of  royal  palms  on  the  first  green  terrace  of  the  ascent. 

"Have  a  drink,  Sally." 

She  bent  over  and  looked  down  through  the  pellucid 
depths  of  the  spring,  her  lips  starting  the  silver  circles  in  its 
surface.  She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  the  laughing 
face  trembling  in  the  mirror.  At  the  bottom,  far  below  the 
wavering  features,  little  bubbles  welled  like  tiny  ascending 
spirits. 

"How  pretty !"  she  exclaimed — and  then  started  back  with 
a  shudder  as  she  made  out — other  things  besides  those  silver 
bubbles  in  the  gravel  at  the  bottom, — a  human  breast  bone 
with  its  ribs  still  intact,  and  worn  even  whiter  by  the  action 
of  the  waters  than  its  fellows  on  the  sands  a  mile  away. 

"You  did  jump,  Sally,"  said  Ben,  "but  never  mind,  I  did, 
too,  when  I  first  saw  it." 

She  looked  down  into  the  clear  depths  again,  then  drew 
back  and  almost  shrieked : 

"Look  at  that!" 

"What?" 

"That" —    A  white  finger  pointed  downward. 

Straight  through  the  breast-bone,  and  standing  still  up 
right  after  who  knows  how  many  generations,  stood  the  haft 


OVER  THE  TRAIL  247 

and  blade  of  a  corroded  dagger,  brown-red  with  what  must 
have  been  only  rust,  though  it  seemed  to  the  girl  like  stains 
of  blood. 

After  a  moment  she  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  go 
on  with  her  theory,  though  in  a  much  lower  key. 

"Those  that  were  left  followed  the  trail  here  and  they 
quarrelled  on  the  way.  Then  the  leader  of  the  mutineers 
killed  the  one  who  lies  down  there,  with  that  knife,  as  he 
stopped  to  drink." 

A  round  white  pebble,  disturbed  by  her  foot,  rolled  over 
the  brink,  stirring  the  placid  surface.  Another  face,  dark 
and  mysterious  and  framed  with  great  round  earrings,  was 
indistinctly  reflected  beside  her  own  in  the  trembling  waters. 

She  started  back,  violently  this  time,  as  if  to  escape  a  knife- 
thrust  aimed  at  her  own  slender  shoulder-blades.  But  it  was 
only  Spanish  Dick.  He  withdrew  quite  as  quickly  as  she, 
having  no  ingenious  explanation  for  this  new  mystery. 

There  was  a  crash  in  the  underbrush  a  few  yards  away, 
and  all  three  stood  transfixed  as  if  expecting  an  attack  from 
the  spirits  who  haunted  the  island.  And  even  Ben  himself 
was  more  startled  than  he  cared  to  confess. 

Spanish  Dick  was  unconsciously  making,  with  clenched 
thumb,  second,  and  third  fingers,  and  uplifted  first  and 
fourth,  the  old  sign  of  the  horn  with  which  the  superstitious 
exorcise  the  evil  one. 

But  it  was  only  a  wild  boar  who  emerged  from  the  thicket 
and  trotted  with  lowered  tusks  and  slavering  jaws  across 
the  open. 

There  were  three  sighs  of  relief,  of  varying  intensity,  but. 


248  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

nevertheless,  it  was  with  silent  trepidation  that  they  hit  the 
trail  again. 

On  the  next  terrace,  the  lustrous  green  of  mangoes  and 
limes,  mingling  with  the  wilder  tropical  trees  and  shrubs, 
gave  the  first  evidence  which  they  had  seen  of  human  habi 
tation,  long  years  ago.  But  to  the  three  explorers  these 
traces  of  their  own  kind  did  not  clear,  but  seemed  to  deepen 
the  mystery,  just  as  had  the  decaying  foundations  of  the 
squatters'  huts,  and  the  keel  and  ribs  of  a  long-boat  imbedded 
in  the  sand,  which  they  had  noticed  from  the  cliff,  a  little 
farther  back. 

Men  had  dwelt  here  once — and  had  gone.  The  natives 
had  vanished,  too.  Had  never-ending  misfortunes  visited 
civilized  white  and  naked  black,  as  it  had  the  wild  buccaneers 
of  the  Spanish  Main,  until  the  very  place  seemed  cursed  by 
the  "Voodoos"  whom  all  born  in  the  Caribbees  fear !  Could 
it  be  haunted?  Here,  at  any  rate,  it  was  hauntingly  lovely. 
It  was  a  place  for  bright  angels,  not  demons  of  the  dark. 

Giant  tree-ferns  brushed  their  faces.  Little  checkered 
serpents  spiralled  through  the  undergrowth.  Above  them 
jabbered  busy  macaws  in  their  gay  coats  of  vermilion  and 
indigo  and  emerald.  Lichens  misted  the  great  boles  of  the 
mahoganies  with  silver-white  like  summer  hoar  frost,  and 
the  flaming  scarlet  of  poncianas  framed  the  black  tresses  of 
her  hair.  And  when,  forgetting  for  a  moment  the  ghastly 
relics  of  the  island,  she  laughed  aloud,  Ben  saw  that  the 
pearly-white  sheen  of  orchids  for  which  a  merchant-prince 
would  have  given  a  fortune,  exactly  matched  her  teeth. 

Then,  as  the  crowning  touch  to  this  gay  carnival  of  Na- 


OVER  THE  TRAIL  249 

ture,  the  quintessence  of  all  the  riot  of  colour,  they  saw  what 
seemed  to  be  a  little  heart  of  many  hued  fires,  palpitating 
above  the  blossoms — a  humming  bird  of  rare  species  and 
rarer  loveliness. 

It  was  all  a  beautiful  fantasy,  the  girl  thought,  more  be 
witching  even  than  the  one  she  had  seen  that  Christmas 
when  Captain  Harve  had  taken  her  to  the  theatre  in  Boston. 

"Oh — it  is  so  lovely !"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands 
in  ecstasy.  "It  almost  seems  as  if  Peter  Pan  must  appear 
any  minute  out  of  that  wood  there." 

They  journeyed  on  and  entered  a  forest  with  limbs  and 
trunks  tangled  in  an  intricate  maze  of  liana  vines,  like  a  great 
ship's  ropes — then  a  space  where  the  trees  had  thinned  a  little, 
and  the  pattern  overhead  was  broken  with  little  rents  of 
blue,  the  lighter — bits  of  the  sky  above,  the  dark — bits  of  the 
sea  below. 

Then  at  last  they  reached  the  cool  silences  of  Cathedral 
Woods,  and  under  the  great  arches  ate  their  lunch  of  dried 
beef,  and  crackers,  and  cheese,  while  birds,  coloured  like 
those  little  patches,  flashed  from  branch  to  branch. 

" Azur  de  la  Vergm,"  exclaimed  the  gypsy-sailor. 

"And  what  does  that  mean?"  questioned  Sally. 

"The  blue  of  the  Virgin.  They  are  Her  carrier  pigeons. 
If  you  hear  and  have  the  faith,  some  day  they  bring  a  mes 
sage  to  you,  when  you  are  in  trouble.  They  are  blue  like 
thoughts  of  love,  not  like  that  one  up  there,  he  is  one  big 
bad  thought.  He  picks  the  bones  of  the  dead." 

Their  eyes  followed  his  pointing  finger,  long,  brown  as 
tobacco,  and  marked  with  the  two  warts  he  was  forever 


250  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

trying  to  wheedle  away  with  outlandish  charms  and  brews. 
A  buzzard  soared  above  them  in  concentric  circles,  quite,  as 
the  gypsy  had  said,  like  a  thought  of  evil  hovering  over  this 
enchanted  paradise.  It  was  far  away,  and  yet,  somehow,  it 
oddly  reminded  Sally  of  the  story  of  the  little  cloud  no  big 
ger  than  a  man's  hand,  and  how  it  grew  and  grew,  told  her 
when  she  wore  pigtails  and  used  to  sit  in  the  high-backed 
pews  of  the  old  church.  How  far  away  that  sanctuary 
seemed ! 

But  their  eyes  returned  to  the  little  heavenly  messengers, 
flitting  so  peacefully  above  them,  and  Ben,  his  tongue  un 
loosed  at  last,  told  her  of  his  nicknames  for  these  and  all 
the  other  wonderful  things  on  the  island.  She  did  not  smile 
at  them  at  all,  for,  with  a  little  tremor  of  sympathy,  she  real 
ized  what  a  pathetic  game  it  had  been,  that  and  all  the  tasks 
he  had  devised,  battling  against  despair  in  this  lonely  place 
whose  very  loveliness  at  times  seemed  almost  sinister. 

She  was  almost  for  giving  up  the  hunt  then  and  there,  but 
they  tossed  aside  their  feelings  of  depression,  and  ate,  and 
laughed,  and  sang,  till  they  woke  the  echoes  of  wood  and 
cliff  and  were  happy  again.  When  Don  Alfonso  had  de 
voured  the  last  scrap,  they  rose  and  walked  to  the  brink  of 
the  great  gorge  which  severed  Cathedral  Woods  from  the 
last  slope  of  the  mountain. 

"Hear  that,  Sally !" 

A  voice  like  thunder,  shot  through  with  notes  of  laughter, 
rose  from  four  hundred  feet  below  where  the  white  water 
fall  ended,  and  yet  never  ended,  the  leap  it  started  with 
such  wild  abandon  by  their  side. 


OVER  THE  TRAIL  251 

"What  name  did  you  give  that,  dear?" 

Ben  flushed  a  little  under  his  coppery  tan. 

"Tell  me,"  she  repeated  with  sweet  insistence. 

"Don't  think  I'm  crazy — I  was  a  little  ahead  of  time — 
but  I  called  it  'Sally's  Bridal  Veil !'  " 

"Crazy  ?    I  think  you're  a  dear." 

She  had  to  kiss  him  for  that,  of  course — and  then,  as  Span 
ish  Dick  was  trying  to  tame  another  parrot  more  brilliant 
than  his  own  pet,  and  the  little  yellow  Don  Alfonso  was 
always  a  model  of  discretion — why,  she  kissed  him  again. 

Then — after  a  moment — maybe  it  was  ten — he  shouted  to 
make  himself  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  cascade. 

"We'll  have  to  stop  here — I'll  tell  you  about  the  rest." 

"Oh — don't  stop  now — just  when  we've  reached  the  most 
interesting  part.  We've  just  got  to  finish  that  picture  puzzle, 
you  know." 

"Do  you  see  that  bridge?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  it's  too  dangerous  for  a  girl." 

She  gauged  it  with  a  glance.  Perilous  indeed  seemed  the 
swaying  passage  over  the  few  rotted  planks,  haphazardly 
laid  on  tenuous  cables  of  liana  vines.  It  was  very  old  and 
guarded  only  by  an  uncertain  hand  rail,  of  the  same 
vines,  from  the  rocky  chasm  where  the  water- fall  thun 
dered. 

The  girl  took  a  deep  breath. 

"I  can  make  it." 

"But  there's  worse  beyond." 

But  the  black  ties  with  their  slender  toes  and  heels  of  a 


252  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

military  cut,  not  stilted  like  Carlotta's,  but  attractively  fem 
inine,  Ben  thought,  were  already  on  the  first  plank. 

Ben  followed,  right  behind,  ready  to  grasp  her  if  she  fal 
tered,  then  Spanish  Dick  with  considerable  ease,  for  his 
hardened  bare  feet  had  an  almost  prehensile  faculty  now, 
and  finally,  Don  Alfonso,  bewildered  but  with  implicit  faith 
in  the  guidance  of  his  light-hearted  master.  The  crossing 
achieved,  he  crouched  at  Dick's  feet,  his  salmon-hued  tongue 
lolling  over  his  jaws.  It  was  funny — that  little  yellow  dog 
seemed  the  most  human  thing,  the  clearest  connecting  link 
with  their  old  world,  in  all  that  strange  setting. 

They  walked  along  the  ledge  of  the  gorge  toward  the  sea, 
not  always  daring  to  look  down,  for  the  sheer  cliffs  were 
dizzying,  but  now  and  then  glancing  at  the  trickling  stream, 
as  it  raced  with  bright-flashing  courage  to  meet  the 
leagues  of  rollers,  storming  the  breast  of  the  sea  wall  just 
beyond. 

They  reached  the  wall,  facing  the  west,  high  above  the 
tossing  white  plumes.  Northward,  they  could  see  the  masts 
and  spars  of  the  North  Star  and,  near  by,  the  strange  yacht, 
both,  at  that  distance,  looking  like  miniature  models  rather 
than  craft  that  sailed  the  ocean. 

"We'll  call  this  a  day's  work,  Sally,"  said  Ben.  "You 
can't  go  any  further.  The  cave  is  at  the  end  of  the  path — 
just  in  the  second  curve  of  the  S.  But  there's  no  use  trying 
to  look  at  it.  That's  just  what  that  big  buzzard  up  there 
wants  you  to  do.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  just  as  well." 

"Not  when  I've  come  as  far  as  this,"  she  said.  "I'm  not 
one  of  your  fussed  up  city  girls,  and  I  can  climb.  Why,  I've 


OVER  THE  TRAIL  253 

been  on  the  maintop  of  the  North  Star — several  times — when 
it  was  pretty  rough." 

The  girl  was  determined,  so  they  wound  around  the  jutting 
rock  to  the  path  in  the  cliff,  while  Spanish  Dick  sat  him  down 
tailor-fashion,  in  a  nook  just  out  of  the  wind.  From  his 
faded  shirt  he  drew  a  much-stained  pack  of  cards,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  tell  Alfonso's  fortune  in  some  Spanish  lingo,  shak 
ing  his  curly-head  and  earrings  the  while. 

"Ah,  my  little  Alfonso,  thou  hast  no  head  to  see  things 
that  are  not  in  front  of  thy  nose,  but  thou  hast  a  loyal  heart 
and,  as  the  Americano  says,  'it  is  white,  though  thy  hide  be 
yellow/  The  cards  tell  good  things  for  thee — very  good 
things.  Thou  wilt  be  very  happy  with  great  bones,  and  a 
place  in  paradise,  where  little  dogs  with  souls  like  thine  can 
bark  at  the  stars,  and  moon,  and  wear  no  collars  or  chains — 
that  is  after  a  little  time — a  very  little  time — in  Purgatory. 

"Now  a  little  fortune  for  us."  The  cards  slapped  on  the 
rock.  "No — I  do  not  like  that !  That  ace  of  diamonds  comes 
again  and  again,  between  the  dark  lady  and  knaves  with  the 
winking  eyes — no  I  do  not  like  that." 

Hugging  the  sea  wall  to  steady  themselves  against  unbal 
ancing  puffs  of  wind,  the  young  folks  crept  around  the 
jagged,  coiling  path  to  the  mouth  of  the  cavern. 

Gaining  the  opening,  they  started  to  enter  the  airy  first 
chamber,  when  Ben,  remembering,  placed  his  hand  on  her 
elbow,  guiding  her  past  a  little  heap  of  objects  that  lay  scat 
tered  on  the  floor. 

Sally,  peering  in  towards  the  dark  recesses,  did  not  notice 
them  until  Ben  spoke. 


254  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Another  nice  little  piece  of  your  picture  puzzle." 

Long  ago  the  winds  of  the  ocean  had  whirled  away  the 
mounds  of  dust,  after  the  ancestors  of  that  buzzard  above 
them  had  finished  their  work,  but  the  bones,  disturbed  a 
little  by  the  boy's  mad  flight  a  year  ago,  remained,  the  index- 
finger  still  pointing  in  towards  the  shadows. 

The  girl  trembled  to  him.  But  her  courage,  and  the  fas 
cination  of  those  shadows,  were  greater  than  her  fright. 
Hand  in  hand,  they  passed  on  into  the  darkness. 

Taking  out  the  little  blue  box  of  matches  which,  like  the 
yellow  dog  back  on  the  gorge,  seemed  an  odd  connecting  link 
between  them  and  the  world  they  had  known,  the  boy  lighted 
the  pine-knot  he  had  brought  with  him.  Aided  by  this  un 
steady  torch,  they  curved  around  the  elbow  of  the  tunnel, 
stooping  where  the  roof  was  low,  and  straightening  as  they 
came  into  the  inner  chamber,  hallowed  by  Nature  out  of  the 
great  rock. 

"Ooh !  what  are  those  ?"  shrieked  Sally. 

Far  within,  two  pairs  of  yellow  ovals  gleamed  like  great 
cat's  eyes  in  the  dead  of  night.  They  dimly  descried  the 
outline  of  black  shapes.  Her  cry  startled  them.  Something 
brushed  her  hair.  She  fell  back  panting,  against  the  sides  of 
the  cavern  which  echoed  to  great,  hoarse  cries  as  the  black 
shapes  sailed  past  them. 

"Only  birds,"  whispered  Ben,  "don't  be  frightened." 

But  he  shook  a  little,  himself. 

Upon  the  walls  the  flickering  torch  cast  capering  shadows 
— of  themselves  and  a  thousand  other  impish  figures  which 
they  could  not  see. 


OVER  THE  TRAIL  255 

Then,  turned  on  the  floor,  the  light  revealed  the  last  of  the 
ghastly  relics — another  skeleton,  quite  undisturbed,  its  long 
arm  and  the  bones  of  its  fingers  clutched  as  if  about  to  grasp 
something  just  beyond  its  reach,  when  the  evil  heart  stopped 
beating. 

The  boy  turned  the  torch  once  more  and  she  saw  the  stone. 

"What  do  you  see?" 

"Only  a  stone."  Then  she  added  "Why,  there  are  queer 
markings  upon  it." 

"What  do  you  make  of  that?" 

"Circles  and  odd  lines — yes  and  numbers  and  letters — it 
looks  like  a  chart." 

"Could  that  be  a  map  of  the  island?" 

"It  can't  be  anything  else." 

"And  there's  treasure  on  it !  Those  pirates  didn't  divide 
their  gold,  after  all — back  there  on  the  beach.  They  were 
looking  for  the  key  to  treasure  that  was  buried  by  some  one 
else,  before  they  landed." 

Then  she  continued  in  an  awed  voice : 

"The  last  two  reached  the  cavern,  and  even  they  had  to 
fall  out.  One  died  at  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  the  other 
crawled  here  to  die." 

As  she  turned  and  looked  behind  her  another  little  cry  was 
echoed  back. 

"Ooh — it  moved!" 

"What  moved?"  asked  the  boy  a  little  roughly. 

"That  hand !" 

She  shrank  back  into  the  shelter  of  his  arms.  She  had  dis 
tinctly  seen  the  hand  move — and  towards  the  stone. 


256  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"It   was   only   your    foot.      You   knocked    it   when   you 
turned." 


Safe  in  his  arms,  she  sighed  with  relief,  but  he  could  still 
feel  her  heart  beating  against  his  own. 
"I  guess  we'd  better  go,  now,"  she  said. 
Still  hand  in  hand,  they  hurried  out  of  the  cavern,  almost 


OVER  THE  TRAIL  257 

pitching  over  the  great  sea  wall  as  they  hurriedly  stepped 
over  the  piles  of  bones  at  the  entrance. 

When  they  reached  the  spot  where  the  path  turned  inland 
along  the  gorge,  she  stopped. 

"Last  Halloween  at  the  Schaufflers',  we  told  ghost-stories, 
but  they  were  nothing  like  this.  You  should  have  heard 
Stella  scream.  If  she'd  gone  in  back  there,  you  would  have 
had  to  carry  her  out." 

Spanish  Dick  was  still  in  the  shelter  of  the  rock,  the  great 
earrings,  and  curly  hair  under  the  red  bandana,  falling  over 
his  face  as  he  frowned  over  the  refractory  cards. 

"I  don'  like  that,  Senorita.  Again  and  again  I  deal  them, 
an'  this  ace  of  diamonds — it  is  the  islan'  here — she  turn  up  al 
ways  between  the  dark  lady  an'  the  grinning  knaves.  You 
tell  your  uncle  with  the  many  whiskers,  by  San  Mariano  with 
the  crooked  back,  to  haul  up  that  anchor  damn  queeck." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
SOME    ODD    REMARKS    OF    CAPTAIN    BRENT 

THE  sound  sleep  which  should  have  been  the  portion  of  so 
innocent  a  maiden,  especially  after  such  an  arduous  journey, 
did  not  visit  her  pillow.  It  was  of  ferns,  that  night,  her 
couch,  of  palm-leaves  in  the  hut,  for  here  she  stayed  as  had 
been  arranged  in  the  morning,  Ben  and  Dick  sleeping  in  the 
open  not  far  away.  She  had  wanted  to  spend  one  night, 
before  sailing,  in  the  place  where  Ben  had  rested  during  his 
exile,  but  at  the  last  moment  she  was  almost  tempted  to 
change  her  plans  and  sleep  in  her  snug  berth  on  the  North 
Star.  She  would  have  felt  just  a  little  more  secure  after 
the  uncanny  incidents  of  the  day.  But  she  prided  herself 
on  "being  game,"  and  she  had  a  goodly  measure  of  pertinacity 
handed  down  by  her  Puritan  ancestors,  so  she  stayed  on 
shore. 

Even  on  this  soft,  sweet-smelling  pallet  she  tossed  and 
turned — for  hours  it  must  have  been — although  she  had  no 
man-made  clock  to  tell  the  passage  of  time,  only  the  Heavenly 
constellations,  gradually  sinking  behind  the  palm-trees 
towards  the  west. 

A  strange  and  forbidding  throng  danced  through  the 
chambers  of  her  tousled  head.  The  scarlet  and  black  kings, 

258 


ODD  REMARKS  OF  CAPTAIN  BRENT    259 

and  queens,  and  knaves,  of  Spanish  Dick's  cards,  stepped  out 
of  their  stiff  frames,  and  in  full  regalia  tried  her  in  high 
court  for  trepass  on  the  fairy  isle.  Condemned,  she  was  de 
livered  to  a  swarthy  crew  of  bearded  pirates,  with  huge  rings 
in  their  noses,  and  cutlasses  between  their  teeth,  and  carried 
up  the  side  of  the  mountain. 

In  its  crater  boiled  a  gigantic  cauldron,  tended  by  jibbering 
skeletons  who  pointed  their  grisly  forefingers  at  her,  their 
wide  death's-head  mouths  grinning  horribly.  The  buzzard 
swooped  down  from  a  black  sky  and  stood  before  her.  It 
grew  and  grew  till  its  fiery  eyes  were  as  big  as  cart-wheels, 
and  it  was  as  tall  as  the  mast  of  a  ship. 

She  looked  for  the  North  Star.  It  was  sailing  away! 
She  called,  but  she  could  not  utter  a  single  word.  Even  at 
the  great  distance  she  could  see  Ben  at  the  wheel,  with  his 
face  turned  towards  her.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
Again  she  tried  to  shriek,  but  could  not.  And  suddenly  the 
mountain  became  alive  and  spat  showers  of  burning  coals, 
then  an  avalanche  of  fire.  She  was  buried,  but  somehow  the 
coals  did  not  burn  her  body  at  all.  She  laughed  aloud  in 
relief — then  again  tried  to  scream  for  help,  for  the  coals 
were  choking  her — suffocating  her. 

She  awoke.  It  must  have  been  somewhere  about  mid 
night.  She  wanted  to  call  Ben,  but  was  ashamed  of  her  fear. 

She  shook  off  the  spell  of  the  evil  dream,  and  looked  out 
of  the  door  of  the  hut,  through  the  break  in  the  grove.  The 
waters  were  calm  and  untroubled.  A  bright  moon-path  led 
to  the  horizon.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  for  down  it,  between 
the  Capes  of  the  Twin  Horns,  came  sailing,  a  slender  craft, 


260  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

with  twin  rakish  masts,  to  cast  anchor  in  the  bay.  Again 
she  wanted  to  call  the  men,  but  she  told  herself  it  was  all  a 
part  of  her  dream,  and  tried  to  fall  asleep. 

She  was  successful  at  last,  and  one  by  one  the  constella 
tions  wheeled  on  their  way,  those  left  in  the  blue  field  of  the 
sky,  paling  at  last  in  the  golden-green  light  that  comes  in  the 
East  just  before  dawn. 

The  birds  were  in  full  chorus  when  she  awoke. 

Rising,  she  left  the  hut,  walking  around  the  still  sleeping 
figures  of  the  men,  and  sought  the  spring,  to  charm  away 
with  the  shock  of  its  silver  waters  the  dark  figures  of  her 
dreams. 

But  she  paused  at  the  brink  and  looked  through  the  trunks 
of  the  palms. 

It  was  not  a  dream ! 

Black,  rakish  and  mysterious,  there,  at  anchor,  lay  the 
strange  craft. 

The  sun  looked  over  the  mountain.  The  slender  vessel 
looked  very  real  in  the  morning  light.  Little  figures  were 
climbing  down  the  ladder ;  a  boat  shot  from  her  side.  Over 
the  waters  came  the  creak  of  the  oarlocks.  Back  and  forth 
swung  the  oars.  Back  and  forth  went  the  backs  of  the 
rowers.  Now  the  nose  of  the  boat  swished  in  the  sand  and 
the  figures  leaped  out.  One  was  darkly  dressed,  slender  and 
very  tall ;  the  middle  one,  burly  with  a  fighter's  crouch ;  on 
the  end  advanced  a  short  man,  a  little  bowed,  and  evidently 
old,  but  full  of  energy.  Even  at  the  distance  she  did  not 
like  their  faces. 

They  came  nearer  and  she  hid  behind  the  trunk  of  a  palm, 


ODD  REMARKS  OF  CAPTAIN  BRENT    261 

which,  though  narrow  of  girth,  could  quite  conceal  her  slen 
der  figure. 

"At  last  we  found  this  -  uv  a  place  atter  tackin' 

all  over  the  hull  Atlantic  like  a  hayseed  chasin'  a  

pig,"  she  heard  the  little  old  man  say,  "why  damme,  Pete, 
if  the  boat  herself  didn't  get  so  dizzy  with  goin'  about  that 

she  near  capsized.  Blast  me  hide  if  ever  I  ship 

on  a  cruise  like  that  agin." 

It  all  came  so  quickly  she  didn't  have  time  even  properly  to 
stop  her  ears,  and  now  the  tall  man  held  something  in  his 
hand.  It  looked  like  her  high  school  diploma,  only  dingier 
and  stained.  He  unrolled  it  and  the  three  bent  over  it. 

"It's  anelluva  puzzle,"  quoth  the  little  old  man. 

Puzzle,  puzzle !  She  looked  again,  then  crept  from  trunk 
to  trunk  toward  the  spot  where  they  sat  in  the  edge  of  the 
cave.  There  were  markings  upon  the  unrolled  canvas — yes 
— they  were  something  like  those  on  the  stone  in  the 
cavern. 

Cautiously  she  retraced  her  steps. 

Quite  as  light  as  the  fall  of  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  on 
Ben's  face,  was  the  touch  of  her  finger  on  his  shoulder. 

Up  he  sat,  trying  to  shake  the  sleep  from  his  body,  and 
looking  properly  foolish,  as  a  young  man  should,  who  finds  his 
sweetheart  up  and  about  before  him — and  on  such  a  glori 
ous  morning. 

"Ben — Ben — wake  up — there  are  strangers  on  the  island!" 

"Strangers — what  strangers?"    He  hardly  comprehended. 

"Silly — they  wouldn't  be  strangers  if  I  knew  who  they 
were." 


262  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Where  are  they?" 

"Back  here  on  the  beach — hush — don't  talk  so  loud! 
They're  suspicious  looking  enough." 

When  they  reached  the  edge  of  the  grove,  the  three  figures 
had  walked  up  the  beach.  They  looked  very  black  in  the 
golden-lit  patch  of  sands.  Then,  rounding  the  little  cliff  to 
the  east  and  turning  south,  they  disappeared. 

"They're  after  that  treasure,  Ben,  sure  as  shootin'." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"The  tall  dark  man  had  a  roll  of  canvas  with  him,  and 
on  its  back  were  lines  just  like  those  on  the  stone  up 
there." 

Ben  looked  at  her  in  alarm.  Was  the  island  haunted  after 
all  ?  Was  it  casting  its  spell  on  her  level  little  head  ? 

"Are  you  dreaming,  Sally,  or  am  I  ?" 

"No,  honestly — Ben — it's  every  word  true — see  that's 
how  they  came." 

He  hadn't  noticed  the  black  yacht  before. 

However,  breakfast  was  a  first  law  of  nature,  so  very 
soon  a  fire  snapped  its  rosy  fingers  on  the  beach,  and  Spanish 
Dick  concocted  some  pretty  strong  coffee,  Ben  toasting  some 
crackers  brought  from  the  ship  the  night  before.  For  tid 
bits  they  had  the  wings  and  legs  of  the  wild  bird  left  over 
from  supper  and,  as  a  special  appetizer,  bananas  gathered 
from  the  first  terrace. 

Out  on  the  waters  they  saw  a  boat  put  off  from  the  North 
Star.  The  crew  rowed  hurriedly  to  the  yacht,  and  a  man,  evi 
dently  Cap'n  Brent,  climbed  the  ladder.  He  remained  on 


ODD  REMARKS  OF  CAPTAIN  BRENT    263 

board  but  a  few  moments,  then  climbed  down.  A  bit  of  colour 
caught  their  eyes — a  gay-coloured  dress.  A  woman's  laugh 
floated  on  the  morning  breeze. 

"Um — things  arc  beginning  to  happen,"  muttered  Ben. 
"I'm  here  for  over  a  year  without  a  living  soul  to  speak  to. 
Then  in  two  days  folks  come  sailing  here  like  miners  in  a 
gold  rush.  We'll  have  a  nice  young  city  here  soon." 

The  boat  was  beached  and  the  Captain  hailed  them. 

"Morning,  Captain,"  called  Ben,  "where  does  she  hail 
from?" 

"New  York,  they  say,"  replied  the  Captain,  slowly  rilling 
his  pipe  from  his  oilskin  pouch.  "I  can't  make  her  out — 
there's  something  funny.  She's  called  the  Alice,  and  flies  a 
New  York  Yacht  Club  pennant.  Looks  as  if  her  name  had 
been  tampered  with." 

"What  sort  of  a  crew  has  she?" 

"A  pretty  tough-looking  lot.  All  I  saw  was  a  sailor  with 
a  grouch,  a  man  who  looks  like  a  prize  fighter,  with  an  odd 
scar  slashed  across  his  face — like  a  streak  of  lightning — and 
a  bell-button  in  his  forehead."  Then  he  smiled.  "There's 
a  woman  aboard,  too.  Pretty  fresh.  Wears  a  sort  of  theatre 
petticoat  and  looks  as  if  she  were  lost,  strayed  or  stolen  from 
some  show-troupe." 

The  girl's  curiosity  rose  to  the  boiling  point. 

"What  did  she  say,  Uncle  Harve?" 

The  skipper  laughed  at  this. 

"Well — more  than  her  prayers.  When  I  came  over  the 
taffrail  she  hailed  me  with,  'Look  who's  here?  If  it  ain't  Old 
Cap  from  Way  Down  East,  salt  on  his  whiskers,  honest  'n 


264  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

true-blue,  and  a  lookin'  for  his  daughter !  You  forgot  your 
cue,  old  scout,  back  to  the  wings.'  " 

A  fair  imitation  of  his  tempestuous  hostess,  nasal  drawl 
and  all,  the  Captain  managed  to  give,  then  added : 

"But  unfortunately  I  couldn't  find  an  interpreter  aboard." 

The  pipe  wouldn't  draw  just  then,  so  he  blew  out  the  stem, 
lighted  it  again,  then  puffed  on  it  diligently. 

"She  referred  to  me  a  little  later  in  the  conversation  as  a 
'stout  old  party.'  Now,  my  girl,  I  leave  it  to  you.  Was 
that  quite  truthful  ?" 

"No,  Uncle  Harve,  you're  just  right  for  a  big  strong  man." 

But  the  boy  broke  in : 

"We'd  better  hurry.    They're  after  it,  all  right." 

"Yes,  we  sail  today,"  returned  the  skipper.  "If  you've 
got  any  luggage  in  that  palace  of  yours  back  there,  better 
stow  it  aboard." 

Here  Sally  interrupted. 

"Give  us  three  days  here,  Uncle  Harve?" 

Then  the  older  man  looked  at  her  in  alarm.  He  wondered 
if  the  island  were  bewitched.  Islands,  especially  these  tropi 
cal  ones,  were  like  women.  Too  much  beauty  was  suspicious. 

"Are  you  daft?"  he  queried.  "You've  just  got  Ben  back 
and  you  want  to  stay  on  this  God- forsaken  place !" 

"Uncle  Harve,  there's  treasure  here!" 

"Treasure!  By  the  blue  beard  of  Old  Cap'n  Teach — 
sometimes  I  think  the  old  sinner  was  right  in  reducing  the 
number  of  petticoats  and  empty  heads  in  the  world." 

He  turned  savagely  on  poor  Dick,  who  was  teaching  Don 
Alfonso  to  balance  a  piece  of  drift-wood  on  his  nose. 


ODD  REMARKS  OF  CAPTAIN  BRENT    265 

"You  hardened  old  liar!  It's  all  your  fault,  stuffing  her 
head  with  your  fool  yarns." 

"No,  Senor  Capitan,  by  Nostra  Senora  de  la  Caradid " 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  forget  some  of  your  saints !" 

"Never  mind,  Dick,  he  doesn't  mean  it.  It  wasn't  his 
fault,  Nunkie, — I  saw  the  chart." 

The  Captain's  mouth  opened  and  shut  twice,  as  if  about 
to  swear,  or  say  something  of  the  sort.  But,  shaking  his  head 
over  this  fantastic  proposal  of  the  young  lunatics — he 
said  nothing. 

It  was  Sally's  opportunity  now  and  she  used  it  with  all  her 
witchery.  She  told  her  story,  and  pled,  and  persisted,  and 
teased,  with  soft  words  and  the  softer  arguments  of  her 
young  arms  around  his  neck,  which  he  never  could  resist. 
So  of  course  he  yielded  and  granted  the  three  days  of  grace, 
a  little  grudgingly. 

Then  he  turned  his  back  on  them,  and  his  eyes,  blue  as  the 
waters  where  the  icebergs  float,  but  infinitely  kinder,  twinkled, 
and  the  lips  over  the  auburn  beard  puckered  in  a  whistle.  He 
had  discovered  something.  A  little  boy  he  had  thought  dead 
long  ago  was  alive.  Alive!  although  he  was  quite  invisible 
to  their  young  eyes  and  clamouring  vociferously  to  be  satis 
fied. 

That  boy  was  right.  What  was  the  use  of  dreary  voyages 
around  the  Horn  in  search  of  sordid  merchandise,  when  there 
was  treasure  close  at  hand.  It  didn't  matter  whether  they 
found  it  or  not.  The  hunt's  the  thing ! 

After  all  a  man  can  be  twenty-one  again — or  fourteen,  if 
he  will. 


266  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

When,  safe  from  the  shifting  sands  of  this  illusory  island, 
the  Captain  trod  the  deck,  the  real  terra  firma  for  him,  he 
called  the  boatswain,  the  only  one  of  the  crew  who,  he  knew, 
would  not  think  him  a  doddering  old  fool  for  his  orders. 

"Benson,  how  old  are  you?" 

"I'm  sixty-one,  sir,  next  December." 

"No,  Benson,  you're  not,  you're  twenty-one!" 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,  if  you  say  so,  sir." 

"And  you're  going  to  man  the  long  boat  and  load  her  with 
picks  and  shovels,  tents  and  provisions ;  take  Joe  Bowling, 
Jack  Beam,  and  Yeo — and  I  s'pose  that  cussed  gypsy — 
around  this  island  with  Ben,  and  dig  for  gold." 

For  a  second  there  was  a  gleam  of  suspicion  even  in 
trusting  old  Benson's  eyes. 

"Gold,  sir?' 

"Yes,  gold,  and  pirate  gold  at  that.  In  a  chest,  Benson, 
buried  under  the  sand  by  wicked  pirates,  d'ye  hear?" 

"Ay,  ay,  sir !"  he  stammered. 

"The  youngsters  want  a  holiday.  They  shall  have  it. 
We'll  dig  for  that  gold.  And  by  the  way,  arm  the  men. 
It's  lucky  we've  those  cases  of  rifles  aboard." 

Then  he  called  after  the  old  boatswain : 

"Remember,  Benson,  you're  only  twenty-one." 

The  old  salt  evidently  thought  it  incumbent  upon  him  to 
rehearse  the  business  of  his  role  immediately,  for,  as  he 
rolled  away  in  the  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  manner  he  deemed 
appropriate,  he  stiffly  executed  the  steps  of  a  hornpipe,  hitch 
ing  his  trousers  fore  and  aft,  and  singing  in  a  voice  like 
a  half  stopped-up  fog-horn. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
A   SONG   IN   THE   WILDERNESS 

"WHY  didn't  we  make  a  copy  of  the  chart?" 

"Don't  worry,"  he  replied,  touching  his  forehead,  "I've 
got  it  all  in  here.  It's  too  queer  to  forget." 

The  boy  and  girl  stood  on  the  southern  slope  of  the 
divide,  a  mile  from  the  gorge  and  the  great  sea  wall,  survey 
ing  the  lay  of  the  land. 

It  lacked  an  hour  of  high  noon.  The  small  ties  with  the 
military  heels  were  scratched  and  worn  from  the  long  climb. 
Tiny  drops  of  moisture  beaded  the  tanned  throat  where  it 
softly  swelled  into  the  bosom  below  the  serge  blouse.  She 
was  very  tired,  but  her  spirits  and  curiosity  were  unquenched. 

"That  must  be  the  place." 

He  pointed  to  a  little  cape  of  sand  which  stretched  out 
into  the  waters  like  a  facsimile  of  Don  Alfonso's  pink  tongue. 

"But  what  does  the  spur  in  the  corner  of  the  chart  mean?" 

"Spur — spur,  I  wonder,  Ben,  if  the  sign  didn't  repre 
sent  the  trunk  and  branches  of  a  tree?" 

"Great  head,  Sally !  Mine  must  be  covered  with  barnacles. 
It's  that  single  palm  out  there." 

"How  about  the  5  and  the  M  ?" 

"It  wasn't  an  M,  was  it?" 

267 


268  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"I  thought  it  was,"  the  girl  returned,  "but  that  awful 
hand  moved  just  as  I  was  looking  at  the  stone,  and  we 
hurried  out  after  that.  Perhaps  it  means  five  million  hurried 
there !" 

Ben  whistled. 

"Five  million.  Now  you  are  seeing  things.  But  I'm  ready 
to  believe  almost  anything  now.  Still  that  figure's  more 
likely  to  stand  for  some  measurement.  We'll  dig  around  the 
tree  tomorrow  and  find  the  iron  men — if  there  are  any — . 
I'll  bet  it's  a  practical  joke  that  some  fellow  thought  he'd 
play  on  his  lazy  descendants  to  make  'em  work." 

"Never  mind,  it  will  be  fun  just  the  same." 

"There  are  your  friends,  Sally." 

"Who?" 

"The  three  crooks  from  the  yacht." 

Below  the  cape  and  headed  away  from  it,  three  black 
figures,  one  taller  and  more  slender  than  the  others,  one 
of  medium  size  and  burly,  the  last  bow-legged  and  short,  and 
trailing  behind  the  others,  picked  their  way  over  the  sands 
in  the  noontide  glare. 

"I  wonder  if  they've  found  the  place." 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  "but  they're  getting  very 
warm." 

While  Sally  rested,  Ben  descended  to  the  beach  on  a 
scouting  expedition.  He  was  far  out  on  the  sands  when 
she,  feeling  thirsty  and  hearing  laughing  ripples  that  betrayed 
the  presence  of  a  brook  somewhere  in  the  woods  behind 
her,  went  in  seach  of  it. 

It  was  a  pretty,  harum-scarum  stream,  unbridged  except 


A  SONG  IN  THE  WILDERNESS          269 

for  boulders  in  it.  With  the  birds  she  bent  over  to  drink, 
when  she  heard  far  off  haunting  strains  of  music. 

She  looked  for  the  flash  of  whirring  wings.  But  it 
couldn't  be  that.  Harsh  voices  too  often  went  with  the 
brilliant  plumage.  Besides,  the  sounds  were  like  those  of 
human  voices  singing — or  spirits,  if  there  were  such  inhabit 
ing  the  island. 

Frightened  yet  impelled  by  devouring  curiosity,  she 
stepped  from  stone  to  stone  to  the  other  brink  of  the  brook, 
then  wandered  through  the  colourful  maze  of  the  wild-wood, 
on  up  the  mountainside  and  towards  the  voices. 

At  last  she  hit  into  what  must  have  once  been  a  path  cut 
through  the  thinning  woods,  but  it  was  rankly  overgrown 
and  there  were  no  traces  of  footsteps. 

The  path  wound  towards  the  sea  and  into  a  bright  open 
space,  once  a  rich  garden,  now  a  beautiful  tangle,  command 
ing  a  view  over  the  descending  phalanxes  of  trees  to  the 
waters,  east,  west,  and  south. 

The  north  side  was  barricaded  by  a  cliff-like  section  of  the 
mountain,  whose  summit  towered  a  quarter  of  a  mile  above. 

Against  the  cliff  and  half -concealed  by  the  deep  green 
foliage  of  trees,  their  branches  seeming  consciously  to 
protect  and  soften  its  ruin,  was  a  great  house,  facing  directly 
South.  Its  roof,  dulled  by  Time  from  bright  red  to  the 
hue  of  rust,  had  fallen  in  at  different  places.  But  many  of 
the  slender  pillars  supporting  the  upper  and  lower  verandahs, 
and  the  gracefully  carved  balconies,  were  still  intact.  In  the 
windows,  tattered  remnants  of  curtains  fluttered  back  and 
forth,  stirred  by  the  disconsolate  wind. 


270  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  whole  place,  designed  in  the  sunny  style  of  the  early 
French  and  Spanish  colonies,  was  covered  with  vines  and  the 
vesture  of  decay.  But  it  had  grown  old  gracefully,  as  a 
woman  who,  long  after  youth  has  fled,  adds  a  late  loveliness 
that  charms  more  than  her  earlier  bloom  because  of  its  haunt 
ing  elusiveness  and  what  it  so  pathetically  suggests. 

Now,  from  the  apparently  deserted  house,  floated  the  same 
strains  of  music,  slow  and  sorrowful,  as  if  someone  were 
chanting  a  requiem  for  the  dead. 

The  great  doors  were  swung  open,  their  upper  hinges  dis 
located  by  some  violent  convulsion.  She  entered,  following 
the  thread  of  song. 

Dust  and  ashes  lay  everywhere.  At  every  step  she  started 
little  golden  typhoons  whirling  in  the  stray  sunbeams.  There 
were  mounds  on  the  quaint  eighteenth  century  tables  and 
spindle-legged  chairs,  some  overturned,  some  still  upright 
and  arranged  in  an  intimate  circle,  unbroken  by  the  ca 
pricious  catastrophe  that  had  startled  their  occupants  into 
flight.  Ceilings,  mirrors,  and  candlesticks,  were  thick  with 
mazes  of  cobwebs,  and  on  one  of  the  tables  the  torn  pages 
of  a  book  stirred  in  the  breeze. 

It  was  bound  in  vellum  and  had  a  clasp  of  jewelled  bronze. 
She  looked  at  the  torn  stubs.  So  exquisite  had  been  the  work 
manship  that  some  of  the  colour  of  the  illuminated  French 
text  still  brightened  the  yellowing  pages.  It  lay  there  just  as 
the  fair  hand  had  left  it.  The  girl  looked  around,  almost  ex 
pecting  to  hear  the  rustle  of  a  silken  skirt  trailing  through  the 
room. 

She  started  towards  the  door,  but  paused  a  moment  to 


A  SONG  IN  THE  WILDERNESS          271 

look  at  the  rows  of  pictures.  Two  had  fallen  on  the  floor; 
the  rest  still  hung  securely  upon  the  wall.  Beruffed  and 
long-curled  cavaliers,  and  ladies  with  billowing  skirts,  and 
coiffures  towering  high  like  the  poops  of  ancient  galleons, 
or  clad  in  the  revealing  costumes  of  the  later  Napoleonic 
era,  stared  back  at  her  as  if  wondering  at  her  intrusion. 

A  gloomy  sea-scape  hung  over  the  piano,  and  in  the 
adjoining  corner  of  the  wall,  its  companion,  now  nothing 
but  a  gaping  frame.  Jagged  remnants  of  canvas  left  in  the 
slits  of  the  tarnished  gilt,  showed  that  the  painting  had  been 
hurriedly  slashed  from  the  carved  wood,  undoubtedly  by 
some  thief,  fearful  of  discovery. 

She  heard  a  stray  footfall  above  her  head,  and  again  the 
slow-measured,  sorrowful  chant.  For  all  its  weirdness  in 
these  strange  surroundings,  it  was  so  beautiful  that  she  was 
not  afraid.  She  ascended  the  staircase.  In  the  deep  layer  of 
dust  upon  the  rail,  at  regular  intervals,  were  the  recent  im 
pressions  of  human  fingers. 

On  tiptoe  she  stepped  over  the  hallway,  and  saw  three 
figures  within  the  most  spacious  of  the  upper  rooms.  Under 
a  moth-eaten  canopy,  the  bed  was  banked  with  flowers. 
And  there,  as  though  she  had  fallen  asleep  overcome  by 
their  fragrance,  lay  the  tiny  form  of  a  very  old  lady.  Grey 
ringlets,  like  a  child's,  fell  over  delicate  cameo  features,  pale 
as  the  whitest  of  the  blossoms.  She  made  even  Death  seem 
a  lovely  thing  when  it  brought  so  deep  and  quiet  a  slumber. 

Beside  her  knelt  a  young  man,  whose  profile  was  like  hers 
but  dark  and  animate.  From  his  hand  an  open  prayer- 
book  had  fallen  on  the  floor. 


272  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Near  him  a  girl  clasped  a  crucifix.  She,  too,  was  alive,  for 
her  rounded  bosom  rose  and  fell  gently,  and  the  olive-brown 
cheeks  were  richly  tinted  with  the  warm  colour  of  ripening 
apricots. 

They  rose  from  their  knees,  and  the  watcher  noticed 
behind  them  a  third  figure, — a  giant  negro,  fully  a  half 
over  the  six  feet,  in  a  livery  of  faded  blue  and  gold.  He  had 
the  unmistakable  look  of  the  congenital  mute. 

She  stepped  back  of  the  door,  as  the  young  man  and  the 
giant  mute  lifted  their  burden  very  tenderly  upon  a  bier 
of  leafy  boughs,  scattered  the  flowers  upon  it  and  bore  it 
down  the  staircase,  the  woman  leading  the  way,  with  the 
crucifix  held  high  before  her. 

To  the  left  of  the  house  and  facing  the  morning  sun, 
was  a  pile  of  black-red,  newly-turned  earth.  There  were 
mounds  and  crosses  on  either  side. 

Never  noticing  the  one  unbidden  mourner  who  stood 
hidden  behind  the  torn  draperies  of  a  window  near  them,  they 
laid  the  quiet  form  on  its  bed  of  flowers  in  the  dark  earth. 

The  last  rite  payed,  and  the  rough  cross  raised,  they 
turned  back  towards  the  house,  pausing  under  the  trees. 
Sally  listened  to  their  voices,  the  young  man's  quite  as  pleas 
ing  in  ordinary  speech  as  in  the  chant,  the  woman's  not 
shaming  the  rich  contralto  of  the  requiem,  but  shot  through 
now,  even  in  this  sorrowful  moment,  with  a  certain  lilt,  as 
if  she  were  altogether  in  love  with  him. 

Their  talk  was  all  in  French.  Only  a  few  nouns  and 
verbs,  and  fewer  adjectives,  remained  from  Sally's  old 
High-School  vocabulary  but  she  caught  this  much : 


A  SONG  IN  THE  WILDERNESS          273 

" return  with  him " 

"No,  no,  monsieur,  I  will  stay." 

Then  the  contralto  voice  asked  a  question  which  she  could 
not  understand,  but  she  translated  a  fragment  of  the  answer. 

"Here — the  one  home  left." 

Again  in  the  woman's  voice  she  recognized  two  words, 
"dig,"  and  "gold." 

Shaking  his  head  and  smiling  as  at  a  child's  foolish  fancy, 
he  answered  still  in  French : 

"I  will  dig — yes — but  it  should  be  for  food,  not  for  fool's 
gold." 

Still  another  band  of  strangers  who  knew  of  the  mysterious 
treasure ! 

In  her  surprise  Sally's  hand  fell  on  the  piano  keys,  warped 
and  dried  like  the  teeth  in  those  death-heads  on  the  sand.  She 
started  the  little  golden  typhoons  whirling  through  the  sun 
beams  again,  and  a  snarling  discord  that  woke  the  echoes  of 
the  house. 

Startled,  she  shrank  from  the  ancient  instrument,  but  then, 
a  little  ashamed  of  her  fears,  and  full  of  sympathy  for  the 
young  man  outside,  whose  face  was  so  kind,  she  passed  out 
of  the  doorway  to  offer  help. 

But  when  she  reached  the  tree  under  which  the  three  had 
stood,  they  had  disappeared,  probably  in  the  surrounding 
forest. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 
A   BULB   FROM   THE   GREAT    WHITE   WAY 

WHEN  she  found  Ben,  who  was  frantically  hallooing  through 
the  woods,  the  sun  had  passed  the  zenith  too  far  to  allow 
further  investigation  of  the  strange  house,  so  they  made 
their  way  over  the  mountain,  down  the  terraces  to  the  hut. 

"It's  funny  that  I  never  discovered  the  place  before,"  said 
Ben.  "I've  tramped  every  acre  of  the  island  north  of  the 
gorge,  though,  come  to  think  of  it,  I've  not  covered  the  part 
south  so  well.  I've  stuck  to  the  coast  pretty  much  there.  But 
I  should  have  seen  the  house  from  the  shore." 

"I  think  the  trees  and  vines  hide  it  from  anyone  at  a  dis 
tance,  Ben.  I  wonder  who  they  are.  Is  it  possible  that  they 
own  the  island  ?" 

"No,  they  must  have  just  come.  If  they  had  been  here 
long  I  would  have  run  across  them  before,  or  have  seen  the 
smoke  of  their  fires  at  least." 

As  they  reached  the  hut,  they  heard  the  sound  of  the 
North  Star's  bells — struck  twice.  It  was  five  o'clock.  After 
Ben  had  departed  on  some  errand,  Sally  sat  cross-legged, 
watching  Spanish  Dick  as  he  moved  about,  preparing  supper, 
his  bare  legs,  tatooed  arms,  and  chest,  coppery-swart  in  the 
levelling  sun-rays,  his  melting  brown  eyes  full  of  dreams 
and  fancies  as  usual. 

274 


A  BULB  FROM  GREAT  WHITE  WAY     275 

"Well  this  island  hasn't  floated  away  yet,  Dick,"  was  the 
bait  Sally  offered  him,  adding  a  little  slowly,  "though  I  must 
confess  it  is  a  strange  place." 

"Wait  and  see,  Senorita.  Some  day  it  go,  if  we  stay  here 
long." 

He  shook  his  curly  head  and  great  earrings  uncertainly. 

"Your  uncle  is  a  good  man  but  very  foolish.  Tell  heem 
haul  up  that  anchor,  dam  queeck — your  pardon,  Senorita. 
The  cards  say  trouble  and  they  do  not  lie  like  men." 

"But  we're  going  to  hunt  for  the  gold." 

"Gold  is  not  good  when  the  yellow  is  stain  with  red,"  he 
returned.  "There  is  blood  on  that  gold,  and  much  bad  will 
come  to  him  who  finds  it." 

"Why,  Dick,  whatever  can  happen?" 

"I  don'  know,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "mebbe  the 
island  float  away  an'  drop  over  the  edge  of  the  world." 

"But  the  earth  is  round  like  a  ball." 

"No,  Senorita,  it  is  like  a  plate.     See  for  yourself." 

He  pointed  to  the  curve  of  the  horizon. 

"As  I  tell  you  many  times,  I  have  seen  this  islan'  all  blue 
an'  green  an'  beautiful  in — what  you  say?  mist — like  gold 
with  stars  in  eet — an'  way  up  high,  the  beeg  moon  an'  the  six 
leetle  ones  swim  roun'  and  roun'.  An'  the  islan' — she  drift 
away  like  a  boat  when  the  oar  gone.  An'  if  she  doan  do 
that,  she " 

He  paused  significantly,  then  gazed  at  her  cunningly  to 
see  if  her  curiosity  were  sufficiently  piqued.  He  had  genuine 
histrionic  talent,  had  Spanish  Dick,  and  he  knew  well  how  to 
play  on  an  audience. 


276  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"What,  Dick?" 

"Well  mebbe  she  blow  up — psst !  like  that — an'  bury  us  in 
fire,  an'  the  sea  open  up  an'  swallow  the  beeg  ship  an'  el 
Capitan  with  the  many  whiskerr,  who  will  not  listen." 

A  little  too  much  like  her  dream  was  this,  and  she  didn't 
like  it.  Seeing  this,  the  gypsy  of  the  sea  went  on,  really 
believing  most  of  his  tale. 

"If  we  hurry,  we  can  sail  away  before  something  happen. 
For  by  San  Federigo  who  walk  on  the  burning  fire  an'  was 
not  scorch,  we  die  if  we  do  not  go.  The  card  say  verry 
soon. 

"But  we  must  eet,  Senorita ;  el  Capitan  has  leetle  faith  but 
beeg  stomach." 

Rising,  he  brought  from  the  tree  a  brace  of  wild  doves. 
Sally  exclaimed  over  the  lustrous  beauty  of  their  plumage, 
soft  grey,  irised  with  the  tints  one  finds  in  the  shadows  of 
pearl-lined  shells.  Then,  having  no  mind  to  see  the  pretty 
things  torn  apart,  she  strolled  to  the  spring,  looked  in  its 
mirror,  and  rearranged  her  hair,  trying  it  this  way  and  that. 

So  occupied,  she  did  not  notice  the  bird  of  strange  plumage, 
as  brilliant  as  the  parrots  above,  who  strayed  into  the  grove 
and  stood  surveying  the  scene  before  her,  one  heavily-ringed 
hand  resting  against  the  stem  of  the  palm.  She  might  indeed 
have  been  "the  fair  Inez  who  came  from  out  the  west." 

But  it  was  not  a  musical  cry,  such  as  the  immortal  heroine 
would  have  used,  which  issued  from  this  dark  lady's  lips,  nor 
in  so  quaint  a  tongue.  It  was  a  single  word  in  English  that 
brought  the  nymph  of  the  spring  bolt  upright. 

"Camera!" 


A  BULB  FROM  GREAT  WHITE  WAY     277 

The  girl  could  easily  have  dispensed  with  this  new  appari 
tion — so  many  had  crossed  her  path  that  day.  Bizarrely  clad 
in  a  diaphanous  skirt  of  tango  red,  a  sheer  light  waist  of 
some  kindred  shade,  and  a  hat  of  yellow,  like  a  newly-minted 
coin,  tilted  on  her  sleek  black  hair,  she  walked  across  the 
open  in  languorous,  hip-swaying  fashion,  a  little  daring  and 
not  at  all  ungraceful. 

And  all  she  said  by  way  of  greeting  when  she  met  Sally's 
stare  was  this : 

"Where's  the  camera-man,  girlie  ?" 

The  costume  indeed  seemed  quite  Spanish,  but  even  to 
Sally's  untravelled  eyes  it  had  a  touch  of  extreme  smartness 
that  the  tropics  never  knew.  And  the  newcomer  spoke  in 
a  lingo  as  unintelligible  sometimes  as  any  native  dialect,  yet 
with  a  nasal  echo  of  the  big  cities  back  home. 

However,  she  was  a  perfect  picture  in  that  setting.  If 
only  she  could  have  hushed  that  voice ! 

Was  this  the  woman  of  the  yacht?  Sally  turned  towards 
her  sharply.  She  was  in  no  mood  for  banter  from  a  stranger. 
But  was  that  face  entirely  strange?  Where — no,  she  couldn't 
place  it. 

"Who  are  you?" 

Again  the  harsh  voice  from  the  carmined  lips. 

"Oh-ah  I'm  Lady  Geraldine  taking  a  cruise  in  my  youngest 
steam  yacht.  They  are  such  a  boah,  my  dear,  don't  you 
think?" 

Carrying  out  the  momentary  role  with  the  perfect  ennui 
of  a  show-girl  in  a  Palm  beach  scene,  she  crooked  her  arm 
affectedly,  feathered  her  hair  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and 


278  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

gazed  at  Sally  through  an  imaginary  lorgnette.  Only  the 
spotlight  was  lacking,  and  the  round-brimmed  yellow  hat  on 
the  back  of  her  head  indeed  gave  that  effect. 

"So  you're  the  sweet  little  bride  who  left  poor  Philip 
flat." 

Fairly  angry  was  Sally  now,  at  the  impudence  of  the 
stranger. 

"Who  arc  you?  How  did  you  know  that?"  Suddenly  it 
dawned  on  her,  the  headstones — the  church  gallery — that 
mocking  face ! 

The  newcomer  lowered  her  voice  from  the  grande  dame 
falsetto  to  its  own  natural  harsh  level. 

"Oh,  I  was  behind  the  scenes,  it  was  a  great  show." 

"How  did  you  get  down  here  anyway?"  returned  the 
smaller  girl  sharply,  for  she  could  be  spitfire  enough  when 
the  occasion  rose.  But  there  was  no  malice  in  the  stranger 
now.  That  night  she  herself  had  felt  so  defenceless,  but  out 
here  in  the  open,  the  obsession,  all  fears,  were  gone. 

So,  thinking  that  she  would  be  civil  anyway,  even  if  the 
stranger  was  too  rude  and  personal,  she  added : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  impolite,  but  it's 
queer  the  way  people  are  always  bobbing  up  on  this  island 
that's  supposed  to  be  deserted !" 

"Ain't  it  the  truth!  I  tell  Mac — he's  the  boss  of  the 
expedition — the  place  is  hoodooed.  Did  yuh  pipe  those 
skeletons?" 

"Pipe — I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Pipe  ?  why  lamp — get  a  look  at  'em,  I  mean — they're  back 
in  that  cove." 


A  BULB  FROM  GREAT  WHITE  WAY     279 

"Were  you  scared?" 

"Scared!  I  had  the  worst  case  of  stage  fright  I  ever  had. 
All  the  bones  in  my  spine  was  clicking  like  castanets,  tangoing 
faster'n  Reny  Castle's." 

"Well,  there's  a  lot  more  of  them,  heaps  all  over  the 
island,"  returned  her  opponent  viciously. 

"Fur  the  luv  o'  Mike !  you  don't  say  so !  The  place  is  a 
morgue.  We  gotta  beat  it,  we  gotta  beat  it.  I've  seen  guys 
croaked  and  never  turned  a  hair — but  no  skeletons  for 
mine." 

Appeased  a  little  with  the  advantage  in  the  skirmish,  Sally 
smiled.  The  tables  were  surely  turned.  True,  terra  firma 
was  all  that  and  more  to  Carlotta.  Once  on  it,  and  away 
from  the  dreaded  deep,  her  spirits  had  risen,  particularly 
with  an  audience  before  her — but — those  skeletons  weren't 
any  too  reassuring! 

"But  tell  me  what  is  your  name,"  Sally  ventured.  "You 
apparently  know  mine." 

"Yes,  yours  is  Fell,  Sally  for  monicker.  You  see  Miss 
Fell,  Mr.  Huntington  and  I  are  intimate,  oh,  very  intimate. 
He  told  me  all  about  you." 

"Phil  Huntington?    Where  is  he?" 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  know?  My  name's  Carlotta,  they 
call  me  'Carlotta,  the  Divine.'  Pretty  isn't  it?  He's  the 
swell  little  press-agent,  that  Abey  Clout.  But" — in  a  burst 
of  good  humoured  confidence — "my  real  name's  Rosey 
Cohen,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it — but  call  me  Carlotta. 
Everybody  does  now." 

Her  curiosity  aroused,  Sally  questioned  further : 


280  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"If  you  won't  tell  me  where  he  is,  tell  me  what  he  said — 
about  me,  I  mean." 

"Well,  it  wasn't  exactly  American  Beauty  bouquets  he 
handed  you." 

"You  came  in  that  yacht?" 

"Sure." 

"It  looks  like  the  Huntingtons'  Aileen." 

The  stranger  started  at  this,  tapped  her  slipper  with  the 
rhine-stone  buckles  and  stilted  heels,  and  answered 
evasively 

"Oh,  steam  yachts  all  look  alike,  same's  chorus  men." 

"But  whatever  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Lookin"  for  gold — can  ya  beat  it  ?" 

"Gold!    You  too!" 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  You're  not  one  of  those  crazy 
nuts  that  believe  there's  gold  on  this  phony  island,  are  you  ?" 

A  nut !  Why  couldn't  the  girl  use  regular  English !  As 
she  talked  on,  she  shifted  her  poses  restlessly,  and  used  hands 
and  quick  wrist  motions  to  illustrate  and  emphasize  her 
statements.  Sally  decided  her  eyes  showed  cunning — perhaps 
even  avarice,  but  she  had  an  infectious  good  humour.  And 
she  certainly  was  a  smashing  beauty  in  spite  of  the  flaws. 

"My  gen'leman  friends  on  the  yacht  swallowed  some  yarn 
about  treasure  on  the  place,"  Carlotta  rattled  on.  "Now  my 
own  little  idea  is  that  you  don't  turn  up  gold  with  a  spade, 
but  you  get  it  by  darn  hard  work.  I  know  I've  worked 
hard  enough  for  all  I  got — until  this  fool  trip — though  you 
couldn't  tell  that  to  the  boobs  that  come  to  see  me  at  Stan- 
dish's.  They  don't  think  I'm  straight  either,"  she  added  defi- 


A  BULB  FROM  GREAT  WHITE  WAY     281 

antly,  "But  I  am.  Us  cabaret  girls  never  get  any  credit.  But 
that's  how  I  fool  'em — lead  'em  on — and — well,  I  can  take 
care  of  myself  when  the  pinch  comes,  all  right." 

"You  sing  in  cabarets?" 

"Yes,  and  dance  a  little — all  the  latest  steps.  You  ought 
to  see  my  newest — it's  a  regular  riot — the  Orangoutang 
Chill."  She  coolly  measured  the  sweet-faced  girl  before 
her.  "But  no,  you  wouldn't  like  it.  Hearts  an'  Flowers  for 
yours,  dearie.  And  you're  right,  it's  prettier  even  if  there 
isn't  so  much  pep.  The  other's  just  some  of  that  Broadway 
bunk  the  bald-heads  and  the  wise  guys  from  Oshkosh  eat 
up." 

The  harsh  voice  softened  and  grew  confidential. 

"You  didn't  fall  for  Phil,  did  you?" 

"No — I  was  sorry  to  treat  him  so.  But  I  had  to.  Ben  was 
alone  on  the  island — and  now  I'm  engaged  to  some  one  else." 

Carlotta  stretched  out  her  strong,  well-shaped  hand 
impulsively. 

"Put  it  there — girlie — congratulations.  It's  the  sailor 
guy  isn't  it  ?" 

"Well,  it's  Mr.  Boltwood.  He  was  wrecked  here,  you 
know,  and  we  came  after  him." 

"Regular  fairy  tale,  bottle  and  all,  isn't  it? — But  it's  fine 
stuff — you'll  be  happy  all  right,  back  in  that  burg — what  d' 
you  call  it?  Pepper'  n'  Salt?  An'  a  nice  little  cottage  all 
covered  with  roses — an'  lots  o'  babies  an' — but  never  mind, 
dearie,  you're  ongenoo,  all  right.  But  I  like  you  even  if  you 
aren't  my  style." 

She  patted  Sally's  hand,  who  forthwith  was  sure  of  her 


282  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

own  liking  for  the  new  friend,  or  rather  acquaintance.  She 
wasn't  such  a  bad  sort  even  if,  as  she  had  remarked,  "their 
styles"  were  so  different  and  she  painted  and  smoked — and 
even  swore  at  times.  And  she  was  decidedly  good  enter 
tainment. 

"It's  queer  about  this  love-stuff,  isn't  it?  Now  me  and 
Phil's  no  more  alike  than  caviar  is  like  baked  beans.  But  I've 
fallen  for  him  somehow,  and  now  you're  not  in  the  runnin' — 
we  can  be  friends." 

"You  haven't  told  me  yet  whereshe  is." 

"Oh,  he  came  with  me  in  his  father's  yacht." 

"He's  here,  then?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know,  dearie.  Otherwise  I  wouldn't 
have  come.  He's  a  fool  kid  and  he  just  had  to  have  a 
nurse — but  all  on  the  level — do  you  get  me?" 

Sally  picked  out  the  thread  of  reason  in  this  vernacular 
maze,  and  nodded.  But  she  was  thinking  that  they  must 
hurry  about  that  gold,  with  the  searchers  increasing  in 
number  each  day.  If  it  ivas  there,  it  belonged  rightfully  to 
Ben.  But  it  was  a  fair  game.  Let  them  all  have  a  try 
at  it. 

Carlotta  rose. 

"If  I  was  you,  girlie,  I'd  get  back  to  God's  Country  as 
quick  as  I  could,  but  /  can't  swim,  so  what's  the  use.  I  don't 
like  that  floating  bottle  stuff  and  the  gold — and  those 
skeletons.  Too  much  for  a  sensible  human  bein'.  I  tell  you 
somethin'll  happen  before  we  get  through." 

"That's  what  Spanish  Dick  says.  He  read  it  in  the  cards. 
Of  course  I  didn't  believe  him  but " 


A  BULB  FROM  GREAT  WHITE  WAY     283 

"Is  he  the  geezer  with  the  curly  whiskers  and  the  merry- 
go-round  rings  in  his  ears  ?" 

"That's  the  one.  He's  over  there  now.  You  can  see  him 
through  the  trees." 

"Well,  you'd  better  believe  him,  all  right.  But  bye,  bye, 
girlie,  I've  gotta  beat  it." 

Sally  watched  her  go,  a  bright  bit  of  swaying  colour  against 
the  green  background.  On  the  beach  she  joined  the  unpromis 
ing  trio  waiting  with  the  boat, — the  tall,  dark  man  with  the 
staring  eyes  she  did  not  like,  the  heavy  set  husky  with  the 
bundles  of  muscles,  glistening  pink  and  oily  with  sweat,  under 
his  sparse  flannel  undershirt,  and  the  chipper  old  man  with 
the  bleary  eyes,  the  tobacco-stained  beard,  and  the  wicked 
saw  mouth  that  cursed  so  constantly. 

At  four  bells  that  night,  Sally  and  Ben  were  watching  the 
new  moon  over  the  rail  of  the  North  Star. 

"It's  just  like  a  slice  of  ripe  melon,  isn't  it  ?" 

"And  just  like  that  night  when  I  sent  you  the  note,  and 
you  climbed  down  the  trellis,  and  we  went  to  the  Lighthouse." 

Her  hand  rested  on  his  for  a  moment  with  a  slight  pres 
sure,  which  he  answered  with  one  far  stronger : 

"If  you  hadn't  come  and  given  me  your  promise,  I  couldn't 
have  stood  it  on  the  island,"  he  went  on  in  his  shy  boy's 
way. 

"It's  funny,  but  to  tell  the  truth,  I  used  to  be  jealous  of 
Phil  Huntington.  I  was  all  kinds  of  a  chump,  but  I  couldn't 
help  it. 

"There  he  is  now." 

The  lights  on  the  lee  rail  of  the  yacht  were  rising  and 


284  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

falling  on  the  slight  swell,  and  the  metallic  strains  of  a  phono 
graph  jarred  the  stillness  of  the  tropical  night.  Listening 
carefully,  the  pair  could  distinguish  a  throaty  soprano  and  a 
mediocre  baritone,  in  a  ragtime  song  as  choppy  as  the  waves 
of  Dead  Man's  Channel. 

"Um  ti  dee,  deedle  dee 
Um  ti  dee,  deedle  dee 
Oh  play  it  again 
That  shivery  refrain 
Um   ti   dee,    deedle   dee — " 

"It  sounds  like  a  frightful  discord  in  this  lovely,  peaceful 
place — as  much  of  a  discord  as — as — '  Sally  wildly  searched 
for  a  home-made  simile — "a  piece  of  red  flannel  on  a  crepe- 
de-chine  dress." 

"It  has  about  the  same  itch,"  said  Ben.  Homely  humour — 
but  they  both  laughed  joyously  anyway.  Then  he  remarked, 
a  little  sternly : 

"If  that's  Phil— I've  been  looking  for  him." 

Her  hand  closed  over  his. 

"Now,  dear,  don't.    You  can  afford  to  forgive." 

Over  and  over,  the  silly,  and  cheap,  but  maddening  melody 
tantalized  the  listeners — "urn  ti  dee,  deedle,  dee — um  ti  dee, 
deedle  dee — "  Now  they  were  dancing  to  it — the  man's 
figure  and  the  girl's,  still  clad  in  the  gay  costume  which  even 
in  the  night  gleamed  colourfully  as  she  swayed  within  the 
circle  of  the  bright  lantern.  Aft,  four  figures  were  bending 
over  some  objects.  A  game  of  cards.  The  music  at  last 


A  BULB  FROM  GREAT  WHITE  WAY     285 

stopped,  and  in  the  stillness  they  thought  they  could  hear  the 
slap,  slap,  as  the  tall  man  dealt. 

"Ben— look  at  that!" 

In  the  northwest  the  golden  slice  of  moon  was  brilliant — 
straining  her  eyes,  she  could  see  only  one — but  above  the 
mountain  to  the  south  hung  something  dark. 

It  was  a  little  curl  of  smoke,  like  a  black  ostrich  plume. 

"I  never  saw  that  before,"  said  Ben. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 
TWENTY-ONE 

NEXT  morning,  a  half -hour  before  sunup,  the  long-boat  with 
the  skipper,  Ben,  Sally,  and  Spanish  Dick,  Benson  the  bo'sun, 
Jack  Beam,  and  Zeke  Yeo,  and  tents,  provisions,  and  a  stock 
of  tools,  left  the  North  Star  and  stole  out  between  the  Twin 
Horn  Capes.  No  life  was  yet  visible  on  the  deck  of  the 
black  yacht. 

Feeling  perhaps  that  rigid  ship's  discipline  must  be  relaxed 
on  such  a  mad  expedition,  the  old  bo'sun  remarked  in  a 
cautious  voice  to  the  skipper: 

"You  didn't  congratulate  me  on  my  birthday,  Captain.  If 
there  was  an  election  in  this  latitude  and  longitude,  I'd  cast 
my  first  ballot  today.  I've  just  come  of  age,"  he  finished 
with  a  smirk  that  would  have  been  a  fit  piece  of  business 
for  his  execution  of  that  ridiculous  hornpipe  the  day  before, 
or  the  old  rascal's  waggish  recital  of  "I'm  to  be  Queen  of  the 
May,  Mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  of  the  May." 

Then  they  bent  to  the  oars  right  gallantly  and  skirted  the 
white  lime-stone  cliffs  of  the  western  shore,  under  a  sky  as 
pink  as  a  wild-rose  on  the  hedge  by  the  roadside,  in  late 
June. 

The  black-eyed  sprite  forward,  laughed  joyously  as  the 

286 


TWENTY-ONE  287 

prow  danced  up  and  down,  now  clear  of  the  water,  now 
descending  to  meet  the  crest  of  the  following  wave,  buffeting 
it  playfully  with  a  resounding  slap,  and  tossing  the  spray 
over  her  shinning  face  and  the  black  tresses  flying  free.  Her 
eye  had  little  lights  of  excitement  in  them  like  those  in  the 
veil  Spanish  Dick  was  forever  telling  about. 

And  Captain  Brent,  sanguine-cheeked,  blue-eyed,  deep- 
chested,  his  brown  hair  and  full  beard  but  sparsely  frosted, 
altogether  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  sat  by  the  tiller  and  boomed 
out  a  song  in  his  deep  bass  voice.  The  tune  was  an  old  one, 
but  the  words,  Sally  felt,  for  she  knew  the  streak  of  poetry 
in  him,  were  his  own. 

1 

"When  you  played  hookey  and  I  played  hookey 

And  we  ran  away  to  sea, 
Our  ship  was  a  raft  in  a  little  pond, 
But  we  sailed  to  the  end  of  the  world  and  beyond, 
And  wonderful  things  did  we, 

Yo  ho !  and  wonderful  things  did  we. 

2 
"Oh,  we  fell  in  with  a  pirate  ship; 

We  spoke  them  loud  and  bold. 
We  raked  them  fore,  we  raked  them  aft, 
When  the  devil's  crew  sank  we  only  laughed, 
And  we  divvyed  their  good  red  gold, 
Yo  ho !  we  divvyed  their  good  red  gold. 

3 

"When  you  played  hookey  and  I  played  hookey 
And  we  ran  away  to  fish, 


288  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Our  line  was  a  string,  our  hook  a  pin, 

But  the  big  fish  came  a  tumbling  in 

Oh !  anything  we  did  wish, 

Yo  ho !  Oh  anything  we  did  wish. 


'Oh,  there  were  dolphins  rainbow  bright 

That  came  to  our  net  from  the  streams ; 
A  whale  with  tons  of  good  sperm  oil, 

Wicked  sharks  grinning  for  human  spoil 

And — things  you  see  only  in  dreams, 
Yo  ho !    Things  you  see  only  in  dreams. 


"And  now  we're  rich  and  we  can't  play  hookey 

Just  as  once  we  did, 

Can't  dig  such  gold,  can't  catch  such  fish, 
Nor  sail  those  seas  and  how  I  wish 
I  was  still  a  foolish  kid ! 

Yo  ho !  I  was  still  a  foolish  kid." 

So  they  rowed  and  rowed  until  they  reached  the  great  sea 
wall,  rising  sheer  above  the  foam  that  laced  its  foot  like 
swirling  chiffon  in  a  breeze.  The  boy  and  girl  gazed  up 
at  the  white  sea-birds  sailing  in  circles  around  it,  and  saw 
the  opening  of  the  cavern,  approached  by  the  perilous  path. 
Quite  innocent  in  the  bright  daylight  it  looked,  but  still  they 
shuddered,  remembering. 

Now  they  sighted  the  Cape  and  there,  in  the  very  centre, 
waving  in  the  morning  breeze,  stood  the  solitary  palm,  per 
haps  the  key  to  the  whole  puzzle. 


TWENTY-ONE  289 

Rounding  the  Cape,  they  beached  the  longboat,  unloaded 
the  tools,  and  carried  them  to  the  base  of  the  palm.  The 
provisions  were  stacked  farther  back  under  a  favouring  clump 
of  trees,  and  water  was  located.  Then,  in  spite  of  Sally's 
impatient  protests,  at  Captain  Brent's  orders  they  drove 
stakes  where  the  verdure  first  fringed  the  coral-tinged  sands 
with  emerald,  and  in  a  jiffy  poles  and  guy-ropes  were  set, 
the  canvas  stretched,  and  a  shelter  for  Sally  prepared  against 
the  swift-climbing  sun. 

But  she  would  have  none  of  this  now,  and  made  straight 
for  the  sentinel  palm. 

"What's  your  reading  of  the  chart,  Ben?"  asked  the  skip 
per,  but  not  as  if  that  made  any  difference.  One  location 
was  as  good  as  another.  Never  a  doubloon  would  they  find 
anyway.  Still,  in  any  event,  he  would  find,  in  fact  he  was 
already  finding,  the  gold  he  was  searching  for. 

With  his  forefinger  Ben  hastily  sketched  in  the  sand  his 
recollection  of  the  odd  markings  on  the  stone  in  the  cavern. 

"It  was  like  this,"  he  said,  "or  at  least  something  like 
it " 

"The  tongue  of  land  is  surely  the  cape,  and  that  forking 
mark,  like  a  spur  or  a  chicken  track,  represents  the  palm,  we 
decided.  It's  as  good  a  guess  as  any." 

"A  pretty  safe  bet  that,  I  should  say,"  commented  the 
skipper  over  his  shoulder.  "My  boy,  you  could  read  the 
devil's  own  chart  of  the  shoals  and  reefs  of  Hades." 

"It  is  a  sort  of  a  devil's  chart,  isn't  it?  but  it  was 
Sally's  idea.  I  can't  figure  out  the  rest.  Say  Sally,  was  that 
letter  after  the  5  an  M  or  an  N?" 


290  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  boy  and  girl  looked  at  each  other  in  chagrin.  They 
were  both  quite  uncertain  on  that  point.  They  had  hurried 
away  from  the  cavern  too  quickly  when  that  grisly  hand  had 
moved. 

"We  were  more  scary  than  a  pair  of  kids,"  Ben  snorted. 
"I'm  going  back  to  the  cave  to  make  sure." 

The  girl  had  sudden  visions  of  the  skeletons,  those 
vagabonds  from  the  yacht,  whom  she  did  not  like,  the  dizzy 
path,  and  the  waiting  buzzard. 

"No,  you  don't,"  she  shouted.  "You've  been  there  twice 
already.  The  third  time  something's  bound  to  happen." 

The  skipper  gave  one  big  glorious  laugh.  He  was  having 
the  time  of  his  life,  sure  enough. 

"Never  mind,  my  gay  young  bucko,  what's  the  difference  ? 
You  might  as  well  go  for  a  divining  rod,  or  fetch  one  of 
those  crystal-gazers  on  Howard  Street,  that  fool  the  Jackies 
on  shore  leave  when  they're  three  sheets  in  the  wind.  We'll 
just  dig  a  little  jag  around  here  and  try  our  luck." 

Then  he  playfully  tweaked  the  girl's  ears,  for  that  year 
it  was  not  the  fashion  to  cover  them  entirely  (fortunately — 
for  they  matched  the  delicate  colouring  of  the  sands  on  which 
they  stood). 

"That  5  and  the  M  mean  five  million  gold  pieces  for  your 
wedding  chest,  my  lass." 

"Now,  who's  bewitched  by  the  island,"  she  retorted,  then 
executing  that  funny  little  dance  of  hers,  a  precursor  of  the 
modern  fox-trot,  called,  for  she  was  determined  to  banish 
that  old  cave  idea  from  Ben's  head : 

"Come  on,  let's  begin." 


TWENTY-ONE  291 

"Righto,  my  girl,  but  we  must  start  with  the  proper 
ceremony,  as  befits  this  momentous  occasion." 

The  skipper's  voice  boomed  from  his  chest  in  a  mock- 
forensic  base,  as  he  handed  Ben  a  shovel. 

"When  the  railroad  is  finished,  the  President  drives  the 
gold  spike,  and  the  Governor  always  unveils  the  town  statue. 
Ben,  you're  the  chief  Bey  or  Pshaw  of  this  island — so  you 
strike  first." 

"No,  the  Captain's  daughter  always  christens  the  ship. 
Let  Sally  try,  for  good  luck." 

So  the  mariners  gathered  round,  and  the  small  black 
slipper  rested  on  the  iron  rim  of  the  implement,  when  she 
glanced  at  Spanish  Dick,  who  was  rolling  his  eyes  and  cross 
ing  himself  while  he  muttered  incoherently. 

"Whatever  are  you  doing  now,  Spanish  Dick?" 

"Do  not  deeg,  Sefiorita.  It  ees  bad  luck.  The  gold  ees 
stain  with  red.  That  means  someone  die  a  bad  death." 

For  once  the  girl  lost  her  patience  and  upbraided  him 
unjustly. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  stop !  You're  nothing  but  a  kill-joy. 
Spanish  Dick." 

The  small  foot  drove  the  iron  in  viciously,  and  several 
inches  deeper  than  one  would  have  expected  from  the  size 
of  the  slipper.  Over  her  shoulder  she  tossed  the  sand  and 
coral  dust,  showering  the  recalcitrant  gypsy  who,  feeling 
very  aggrieved,  retired  to  a  hillock  in  the  shade,  muttering 
to  his  small  buff-coloured  companion,  the  only  one  in  all  the 
world,  he  complained,  that  understood  him. 

Then  they  began  in  real  earnest,  Ben  and  the  bosun,  Jack 


292  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Beam  and  Joe  Bowling,  old  Yeo  and  the  skipper  himself. 
Shovels  swung,  picks  described  their  arcs,  backs  curved  and 
rose,  rivulets  of  sweat  dripped  from  sun-coppered  faces,  or 
glistened  on  the  swift-playing  muscles.  Shining  clouds  of 
sand  whirled  through  the  air,  and  gaping  holes  yawned 
around  the  sentinel  palm. 

The  sun  curved  through  segment  after  segment  of  the 
zodiac,  a  canopy  of  luminous  turquoise,  but  no  gold  except 
his  own,  stained  or  stainless,  gleamed  on  their  expectant — 
or  doubting  eyes. 

At  noon  they  paused  for  a  spell,  but  after  luncheon  and 
a  leisurely  pulling  on  well-seasoned  pipes,  they  struck 
again. 

By  now  the  keen  edge  of  the  holiday  spirit  had  been 
dulled  a  trifle,  but  with  the  persistence  of  stout  men  of  the 
open,  who  always  like  to  see  through  a  hard  job  once  begun, 
their  backs  rose  and  fell  in  that  slow  swing  of  the  digger 
which  always  seems  to  the  idle  onlooker  too  leisurely,  but 
which,  as  the  experienced  hand  knows,  sets  the  only  pace 
that  can  finish  a  hard  stint  with  the  spade. 

Sally  herself  had  tried  to  help  as  often  as  she  was 
permitted.  She  paid  for  it.  With  her  tendency  to  darkness, 
the  backs  of  her  hands  always  resembled  the  palest  of  the  tea- 
roses  around  her  home.  And  in  spite  of  her  activity,  the 
palms  had  always  kept  the  satin-soft  finish  of  the  moss-roses 
near  by.  But  now,  angry  red  welts  and  yellowish  blisters 
discoloured  them.  Still,  she  kept  at  it  until  ordered  to  stop, 
then,  with  a  cajolery  which  this  quiet  little  maiden  could  use 
very  cleverly,  she  soothed  Spanish  Dick's  fears  and  per- 


TWENTY-ONE  293 

suaded  him  to  take  her  place.  At  first  he  protested  with 
a  rapid  play  of  his  hands  and  shoulders. 

"You  tell  me  to  deeg,  Senorita, — I  deeg.  But  only  evil 
will  come." 

But  finally  he  had  taken  his  shovel,  and  from  where 
she  sat,  under  the  flap  of  the  tent,  she  could  see  his  red 
bandana  and  shaking  earrings,  bobbing  up  and  down  in  uni 
son  with  the  bald  pate  of  old  Benson  and  the  straw  coloured 
thatch  of  young  Jack  Beam,  a  few  inches  above  the  latest 
trench. 

At  three,  Ben  threw  down  his  pick,  surveyed  the  gaping 
holes  in  disgust,  and  announced  that  he  was  going  to  climb 
to  the  cavern  once  more,  to  make  sure  of  the  forgotten 
markings. 

In  vain,  this  time,  did  Sally  protest.  Finding  him  adamant, 
she  insisted  that  she  would  go,  too.  However,  he  laughed  at 
her  premonitions  and  refused  her  company,  setting  out  alone 
through  the  wooded  tangle,  northward  towards  the  mountain. 

And  now  as  the  girl  sat  there,  the  old,  vague  forebodings 
assailed  her  in  overwhelming  force,  spoiling  the  golden 
holiday,  as  a  swarm  of  pestiferous  mayflies  suddenly  mars 
for  the  forest  wanderer  the  sylvan  beauty  of  a  woodland 
scene.  All  utterly  unreasonable  and  idiotic,  she  tried  to  tell 
herself,  but  without  any  responding  conviction. 

In  her  New  England  home,  common  sense  was  a  quality 
as  indispensable  to  existence  as  a  roof  to  a  dwelling.  But 
now  it  seemed  quite  as  frail  and  as  much  of  a  mummery  as 
superstition  in  her  old  life  would  have  been  deemed.  By  some 
strange  witchery  of  the  clime,  values  were  uncannily  reversed. 


294  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  substance  there  was  shadow  here.  Common  sense  was 
gossamer,  the  fairy  tale  the  tangible  nugget  of  gold.  The 
superstitions  at  which  the  world  represented  by  Aunt  Abigail 
would  have  so  scornfully  sniffed,  this  moment  seemed 
the  logical  and  immutable  laws  of  this  hauntingly  lovely 
island. 

As  she  tried  to  escape  from  the  swarm  of  fancies,  the 
vision  of  the  haunted  house  on  the  mountainside  flashed 
before  her.  An  uncontrollable  curiosity  piqued  her.  Why 
hadn't  she  solved  that  mystery,  at  least !  Even  as  she  rose, 
a  figure  swung  down  the  old  overgrown  pathway,  that  led 
like  a  clogged  vein  from  the  heart  of  the  green  forest.  The 
figure,  too,  carried  a  spade  over  his  shoulder.  The  girl 
turned,  half -expecting  to  see  one  of  the  villainous  voyagers 
of  the  black  yacht. 

It  was  the  young  man  himself !  The  tenant  of  the 
haunted  house,  who  had  chanted  the  requiem  so  sorrowfully 
and  so  musically. 

Behind  him  shambled  a  second  figure, — the  giant  mute, 
his  huge,  loose- jointed  six  feet  six  looking  altogether  ludicrous 
in  the  faded  blue  livery  with  the  tarnished  gilt  trappings. 
Set  in  a  face  as  dead  black,  the  girl  thought,  as  the  mire 
under  the  reeds  of  the  Salthaven  marshes,  his  eyes  had  the 
dull  unhappy  stare  of  one  who  silently  protests  against  his 
affliction.  The  latter  was  all  too  evident,  for  his  cavernous 
mouth,  forced  by  the  abnormally  flattened  nose  to  gape  open 
for  breath,  showed  only  the  grotesque  root  of  a  tongue. 
Still  his  uncouthness  did  not  frighten  her  as  the  polished, 
well-groomed,  but  sinister,  personage  who  led  that  other  band. 


TWENTY-ONE  295 

For  the  mute  she  felt  only  pity,  and  for  his  master  an 
even  gentler  pang. 

The  young  man  paused  and  dropped  the  spade,  surveying 
the  group  of  seamen,  at  first  in  surprise,  then  with  a  half- 
quizzical,  half-fatalistic  look  that  concealed  his  disappoint 
ment.  She  caught  and  translated  his  exclamation. 

"Voila !    Late  as  usual.    Kismet." 

His  glances  fell  on  the  girl  under  the  trees.  He  must  have 
guessed  her  race,  for,  raising  his  hat  with  that  courtliness 
which  had  amused  Carlotta,  but  which  would  have  both 
flattered  and  softened  the  heart  of  the  average  woman,  he 
addressed  her  in  English,  perfect  except  for  the  elusive 
accent  of  the  Frenchman,  the  tongue  feathering  the  syllables 
as  a  rower  the  waves.  And  yet,  for  all  its  music  and  charm, 
which  was  strange  to  one  accustomed  to  the  frank  rough 
speech  of  New  England  seafaring  folk,  the  voice  was  quite 
as  manly  as  theirs. 

"Pardon  me,  Mademoiselle,  are  they  your  friends?  It  is 
not  often  that  one  sees  a  living  soul  on  this  island." 

The  girl  rose.  From  the  start  she  liked  the  stranger, 
his  bearing — a  pathetic  mingling  of  forlornness  and  debonair 
bravery — and  that  same  fleeting,  half-quizzical  expression  in 
those  sombre  eyes,  which  suggested  fires  banked  with  the 
cold  ashes  of  many  burned  out  ventures,  scattered  by 
Patience  over  the  surface  to  keep  the  flame  of  the  undaunted 
spirit  still  alive.  When  she  looked  at  him  she,  too,  felt  she 
knew  what  his  mother  looked  like,  and  that  was  no  disgrace, 
no  implication  of  effeminacy — the  mother  would  have 
been  proud  of  her  son.  Then  the  lovely  vision  of  the  peace- 


296  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

ful  old  lady  on  the  bed  of  flowers  recurred  to  her.  She 
wondered — but  his  question  had  not  yet  been  answered. 

"Yes,  they  all  belong  to  one  party.  The  tall  good-looking 
man  with  the  beard  is  Captain  Brent.  He's  the  Captain  of 
the  ship  in  which  we  came." 

"Why  did  you  come  here,  Mademoiselle?  It  is  the  back 
stairs  of  the  world,  the  jumping-off  place,  the  spring 
board  from  which  one  leaps  into  a  sea  of  oblivion  or  dis 
aster." 

"We  came  to  find  a  castaway.  It  sounds  like  a  fairy  tale, 
but  it's  all  true.  The  message  came  in  a  bottle  from  a  boy 
we  knew." 

"No,  it  is  not  strange,  for  one  who  has  sailed  these  seas 
and  lived  on  this  island  knows  that  many  things  happen 
that  the  rest  of  the  world  would  shake  their  heads  at — 
And  so  the  message  in  the  bottle  came  from  him — the  young 
man  I  saw  climbing  the  mountain  ?" 

Again  the  quizzical  expression  and,  startled,  Sally  asked : 

"Yes,  but  how  did  you  know?" 

She  flushed,  and  he,  to  spare  her  embarrassment,  turned 
away,  which  was  rather  chivalrous  and  Spartan,  with  two 
wild  roses  blooming  so  suddenly  and  bewitchingly  in  the 
brown  fields  of  her  cheeks. 

"When  one  has  roved  the  world  many  years,  he  learns 
to  read  the  human  heart,  and  to  put  two  and  two  together — 
or  one  and  one — very  quickly." 

He  looked  at  the  toiling  sailors  again. 

"And  so  they  are  digging  for  gold?" 

"You  guessed  that,  too — who  are  you,  anyway  ?"  she  asked 


TWENTY-ONE  297 

in  sudden  alarm,  but  the  winning  smile  banished  all  sus 
picions.  "Do  you  live  on  the  island?" 

He  avoided  a  direct  answer  to  this. 

"I  have  lived  in  many  places — but  tell  me,  if  I  may  ask, 
why  you  are  looking  for  gold  here.  It  is  not  the  likeliest 
place  for  a  mine." 

"Those  awful  skeletons  on  the  trail,  and  the  chart  on  the 
stone  in  the  cavern,  gave  us  the  clue.  It  seems  silly,  perfectly 
idiotic,  to  believe  it,  but,  as  Spanish  Dick  says  and  as  you 
told  me  just  now,  so  many  odd  things  happen  here.  It's  just 
fun  to  hunt  for  it — just  a  lark,  you  see.  And  anyway  there's 
too  much  prose  in  the  world,  so  I'm  going  to  take  the  poetry 
when  I  find  it.  This  was  what  was  on  it — the  stone,"  and 
she  traced  what  she  could  remember  of  the  markings  in  the 
sand.  "I'm  not  sure  whether  it  was  M  or  N,  though. 

"I  don't  want  the  gold  for  myself,"  she  went  on,  "though 
it  would  be  nice  to  have — if  there  is  any — of  course  there 
isn't,  but  if  there  is — "  (he  smiled  at  her  prettily-mixed  sen 
tences)  "it  would  be  fine  for  Ben —  Mr.  Boltwood — after  all 
he's  stood.  He  could  have  his  own  ship  then.  Just  imagine 
it — he  was  here  almost  a  year  and  a  half.  That  was  hard 
wasn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,  that  must  have  been  pretty  hard — here — all  alone." 

Then  shyly  she  ventured,  for  she  already  felt  quite  at  home 
with  this  well-bred  stranger  in  the  carefully  mended  clothes, 
which  she  correctly  surmised  were  about  all  he  possessed  in 
the  world : 

"I'm  an  American  and  I  live  in  Salthaven,  way  up  north 
in  Massachusetts.  My  name  is  Sally  Fell." 


298  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

.He  bowed — "Salthaven!    I  have  heard  of  that  place." 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "it's  on  the  map,  but  won't  you  tell 
me  yours?" 

"Charles  Larone  of — well — everywhere." 

"I  saw  you  yesterday." 

"Yesterday,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"Yes,  back  in  the  house  by  Cone  Mountain." 

"Cone  Mountain  ?"  He  looked  puzzled  then  smiled.  "You 
have  rechristened  the  Sleeping  Giant  up  there?  He  is 
harmless  now,  but  watch  out  when  he  wakes.  He  rises 
about  every  fifty  years." 

"But  what  do  those  seven  moons  mean?" 

"You !     Have  you  seen  them,  too  ?" 

"No,  but  I've  heard  a  story  about  them." 

"It  is  not  in  my  power  to  explain  it,  it  has  been  that  way 
for  many  hundred  years.  Perhaps  it  is  some  condition  of 
sky  and  sea,  perhaps  it  is  supernatural.  But  they  always 
come  before  some  earthquake  or  misfortune." 

Then,  thinking  of  his  own,  she  ventured, — 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  I  was  sorry — so  sorry."  She 
hesitated  then  asked  gently : 

"It  was  someone  near  to  you — the  one  you  lost,  wasn't 
it?  You  don't  mind  my  asking?" 

"I  understand  and  thank  you.     It  was  my  mother." 

He  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  in  which  she  longed  to  take 
his  hand,  to  express  her  sympathy  in  one  of  the  thousand 
impulsive  and  eloquent  ways  which  a  woman's  heart  sug 
gests  in  times  of  sorrow.  But  he  was  speaking  again. 

"My  mother  came  with  my  father,  and  the  big  Alexandre 


TWENTY-ONE  299 

here,  to  the  island  six  weeks  ago.  It  was  her  only  refuge 
from  some  trouble  that  has  always  followed  her.  My  father 
lived  only  a  week  and,  day  before  yesterday,  I  came  to  find 
her — dying.  I  had  been  looking  for  her  for  twenty  years.  I 
was  glad  to  see  her  once  more — even  though  it  was  the 
end." 

There  was  nothing  that  she  could  say  to  this,  but  he  felt 
grateful  for  her  silence,  and  that  which  her  dark  eyes  ex 
pressed  so  plainly.  Perhaps  even  this  slight  unburdening  of 
his  sorrow  was  a  relief  to  the  reserved  wanderer,  for  ex 
cepting  the  girl  in  the  big  house  on  the  mountain  side,  there 
was  no  one  who  could  offer  sympathy,  and  on  her  he  could 
not  lean.  That  was  enough  of  a  predicament  already. 

Sally  turned  towards  the  diggers  on  the  beach. 

"I  must  tell  them  to  stop,  Monsieur."  Unconsciously  she 
called  him  this,  although  she  had  never  had  any  but  his 
imaginary  countrymen  of  that  High  School  course  to  practise 
on.  "The  island  is  yours  and  the  gold,  if  there  is  any,  belongs 
to  you  too." 

Now  Charles  Larone  did  a  Quixotic  and  a  handsome  thing 
when  he  answered : 

"No,  if,  as  you  say,  there  is  any  gold — and  I  think  you 
will  find  it — it  belongs  surely  to  Monsieur  Boltwood  and 
yourself.  I  am  only  a  rover  who  happened  here.  The  buried 
treasure  is  the  property  of  him  who  finds  it.  Good  luck  to 
your  picks  and  shovels,  Mademoiselle —  But  make  that  an  N 
and  try  five  paces  north." 

It  was  indeed  quite  as  fine  a  thing  as  if  the  duly  recorded 
title  to  a  California  mine  of  richest  vein,  and  not  phantom 


300  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

gold  hidden  by  long  forgotten  pirates,  had  been  at  stake. 
Perhaps  the  whimsicality  of  the  whole  affair  amused  him, 
but  had  the  actual  doubloons  lain  gleaming  before  him,  he 
would  have  made  the  same  answer.  And  never  had  he  needed 
the  money  so  much  as  now. 

And  the  existence  of  that  gold  was  more  than  a  legend  with 
his  people — it  had  grown  to  be  a  tradition,  almost  an  accepted 
historic  fact.  The  yellowing  chart,  stolen  by  the  vagabond 
with  the  forking  scar  at  the  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues,  had  been 
in  their  possession  more  than  a  century  and  a  half.  So,  too, 
had  been  the  picture  of  the  ghost-ship,  with  the  facsimile 
chart  on  its  back,  cut  by  the  covetous  painter  from  the 
frame  still  hanging  on  the  wall  of  the  deserted  house.  Even 
here  the  tradition  had  held,  for  disease  and  death  had  come  to 
the  culprit  in  the  end. 

Two  hundred  years  ago  the  rich  treasure  had  been  cached 
on  the  island.  If  the  reading  of  the  ancient  paper  was  right, 
the  hiding  place  was  on  this  very  cape  where  even  now  the 
sailor's  pick  rang  as  it  struck  something  hard — perhaps  some 
coral  formation  or  volcanic  rock.  No — it  was  a  skull  which 
the  Captain  held  for  a  moment  in  his  hands,  then  tossed 
away. 

With  that  old  chart  had  gone  the  warning  that  disaster  and 
death,  violent  and  sudden,  would  come  to  unsuccessful  seek 
ers  and  finders  alike.  But  there  had  been  this  romantic  codi 
cil — no  harm  would  come  from  the  quest  to  lovers  who  had 
plighted  their  troth  and  kept  it  faithfully  and  true. 

At  this  ancient  superstition  he  would  have  laughed  now, 
as  never  in  the  days  of  his  boyhood.  It  was  his  last  chance 


TWENTY-ONE  301 

after  all  his  ill-starred  wanderings.  But — he  had  looked  into 
the  dark  eyes  and  pure  face  of  a  girl,  and  another  fairy  tale, 
a  very  real  one,  was  swiftly  spun,  there  by  the  sands  of  the 
shining  sea. 

As  for  the  girl,  she  did  not  realize  what  had  happened. 
How  could  she  ?  Like  all  good  women,  and  many  whom  the 
world  calls  bad,  she  was  quickly  sensible  to  the  appeal  of 
misfortune,  especially  when  so  bravely  borne  as  by  this  gal 
lant  Frenchman.  She  liked  him  better  than  anyone  she  had 
ever  known  on  so  short  an  acquaintance,  and  she  felt — at 
home  with  him. 

Perhaps — if  Fate  had  cast  them  together  on  this  island 
three  years  before — but  that  is  a  gambling  in  sentiment,  a 
speculation  on  margin  that  benefits  no  one.  Her  love  for 
her  sailor  sweetheart  had  not  been  like  the  river  that  had 
sprung  full-grown  in  the  stranger's  heart,  as  swiftly  as 
great  streams  were  born  when  the  earth  was  still  young  and 
in  the  throes  of  adolescence. 

It  had  been  like  a  mountain-rill's.in  a  later  and  well-ordered 
age,  separated  by  a  strip  of  green  forest  from  its  companion 
stream.  Side  by  side  they  flow  on  in  playful  friendship, 
singing  to  each  other  as  they  go,  until  the  silver  threads  of 
rills  become  swift  running  brooks,  and  then,  swiftly  dancing 
down  the  mountainside,  they  change  to  deep-flowing  rivers 
in  the  valley.  Farther  on,  at  last  they  will  join,  on  their  way 
to  the  sea. 

Back  in  the  hills  their  course  might  have  been  deflected — 
but  now? 


302  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

So  the  eyes  of  the  girl  turned  towards  the  opening  in  the 
green  wild-wood,  watching  for  the  sturdy  five  foot  eight  of 
a  not  exactly  graceful,  but  very  dear,  sailor  boy.  She  didn't 
like  that  cavern  at  all. 

But  it  was  an  entirely  different  sort  of  a  person  whose 
figure  was  framed  by  the  wavering  green  tracery  of  the 
foliage, — a  girl  who  stood  studying  them  with  the  air  of  one 
who  had  been  so  engaged  for  some  time,  and,  with  that  sixth 
or  seventh  sense  of  a  woman  deeply  in  love,  wondering  what 
had  happened. 

As  she  started  towards  them,  her  fingers  agitatedly  tore 
the  scarlet  petals  of  a  flower  from  its  dark  centre.  She 
was  not  wont  to  do  that  with  the  things  she  loved. 

Languorously  she  walked,  not  indolently.  Her  graciously- 
curved  figure  had  too  much  of  latent  vitality  for  that.  Sally 
thought  the  dark  rich  olive  line  of  the  cheeks  and  throat,  so 
flawlessly  curved,  and  the  soft  brown  eyes,  really  beautiful. 
The  newcomer  was  dark,  like  that  other  visitor  of  the  island, 
who  called  herself  Carlotta,  but  her  beauty  was  gentler  than 
the  metallic  hardness  of  the  good-natured  dancer.  It  didn't 
occur  to  Sally  that  her  own  loveliness,  with  all  the  purity 
and  delicacy  of  outline,  compared  not  unfavourably  with  the 
other  types.  Three  very  distinct  ones  they  were,  though  all 
dark,  and  quite  as  strongly  contrasted,  as  if  one  of  them  had 
been  suddenly  changed  to  Titian,  and  one  to  bright  blonde. 

At  the  relationship  between  the  man  and  the  girl  he  called 
"Linda,"  Sally  was  puzzled.  Chivalry,  protection,  were  in 
his  attitude.  Was  there  more  ? 

She  welcomed  her  frankly,  winning  only  a  shy  response. 


TWENTY-ONE  303 

The  eyes  of  the  strange  girl  were  very  soft,  but  something 
sharpened  them  now,  and  her  strange  concern  placed  a  re 
straint  on  the  other  two. 

It  is  a  funny  way  Life  has  of  snarling  things.  Sometimes 
the  three  fates  are  nothing  but  malicious  cats.  Linda's  eyes 
were  gazing  at  the  man,  his  were  bent  on  the  younger  girl, 
while  she  was  watching  the  opening  in  the  green,  waiting  for 
a  fourth  to  appear.  And  the  threads  were  even  more  badly 
snarled  with  Carlotta  and  Phil  not  far  away. 

Their  attention  was  called  to  the  blue  sea  again  by  the  voice 
of  Benson  singing  out  to  the  skipper : 

"If  there  ain't  that  black  devil  of  a  yacht  again!  If  she'd 
only  shake  out  some  good  canvas  instead  o'  showin'  them 
blasted  funnels,  I'd  swear  old  Cap'n  Bluebeard  himself  had 
his  bloody  claws  on  the  wheel,  or  that  woman-killer  Lollinoy, 
with  a  chip  of  an  iceberg  for  a  heart.  Wished  I  had  a  little 
eight-pounder  and  I'd  send  her  to  Davy  Jones'  locker  where 
she  belongs." 

Trim  and  black,  rakish  and  sinister,  the  yacht  nosed  her 
way  over  the  blue,  rounded  the  Cape,  and,  bearing  South 
west,  cast  anchor  in  the  harbour  which  Ben  had  called  "South 
Bay" — smaller  and  not  so  safe  as  Rainbow  Bay. 

Above  the  headland,  they  could  see  the  twin  needles  of 
masts  and  the  last  grey  blue  feather  of  smoke,  floating  away. 

Sally  turned  towards  the  mountain. 

Over  the  decapitated  cone  hung,  like  a  black  ostrich  plume, 
almost  motionless,  the  same  coil  of  smoke  which  she  had 
seen  at  moonrise  of  the  night  before,  but  grown  a  little 
larger  now. 


CHAPTER   XXX 
FIVE  PACES  NORTH 

ONE  request  the  stranger  made  of  Sally  before  he  left, 
that  Linda  might  stay  with  her  until  next  morning  when 
Pierre  the  boatman  expected  to  start  on  the  return  voyage  to 
the  port.  Even  if  more  respectably  run  than  in  her  step 
father's  devious  regime,  the  Cafe  of  Many  Tongues  would 
yield  a  living,  and  she  could  not  stay  in  the  house  on  the 
mountain  with  him.  So,  after  a  farewell  to  Linda,  gentle 
and  considerate  but  not  at  all  the  one  her  heart  longed  for, 
the  young  Frenchman  started  towards  his  lonely  lodgings, 
with  the  big  Alexandre,  who  returned  a  half -hour  later  with 
her  few  belongings. 

What  the  girl  called  Linda  suffered  through  Larone's  de 
cision,  only  Sally  guessed,  seeing  her  hands  like  twin  white 
moths  flutter  after  his  vanishing  figure,  then  clench  tightly 
as  if  she  could  so  choke  back  the  tears.  It  was  several 
moments  before  she  heard  her  new  friend  calling.  She 
followed  silently  to  the  beach,  where  the  golden  and  orange 
banners  of  a  great  fire  were  waving  royally  in  a  prankish 
breeze.  And  she  made  only  a  dumb  show  of  eating,  sitting 
as  far  apart  from  the  others  as  she  could  without  seeming 
ungracious,  and  never  uttering  a  word. 

304 


FIVE  PACES  NORTH  305 

The  fish  which  that  indefatigable  Jack-of-all  trades,  Span 
ish  Dick,  had  caught,  was  sizzling  in  the  pan,  flanked  with 
appetizing  brown  slabs  of  bacon,  when  Ben  returned. 

Even  in  later  years  he  never  would  admit  as  much,  but  I 
have  always  had  a  feeling  that  he  did  not  like  that  cavern 
any  more  than  Sally.  It  must  have  been  awesome,  for  it 
was  already  growing  late  when  he  climbed  over  the  sea 
wall,  and  rather  dark.  Still,  in  the  warmth  of  the  fire  and 
her  welcome,  he  hailed  her  cheerily  enough: 

"It's  an  N  and  it  means — ' 

"Five  paces  North/'  she  finished  for  him. 

"Five  yards,  or  rods,  or  something  or  other,  North,  but 
how  did  you  guess?" 

"Someone  told  me  just  now." 

"Someone  told  you." 

"Yes,  guess." 

"Not  Spanish  Dick  again." 

"No — it  was  a  stranger.  And,  oh,  Ben  it  was  the  man  1 
saw  in  the  haunted  house  up  yonder." 

"What's  his  name?    Who  is  he?" 

"Charles  Larone.  I  asked  him  several  questions — all  I 
could  decently — and  yet,  come  to  think  of  it,  he  didn't  tell 
much  about  himself.  He's  had  a  lot  of  trouble  in  his  life." 

"I  thought  he  didn't  tell  you  much  about  himself." 

"He  didn't.  I  did  know  he  lost  his  mother,  that  beautiful 
old  lady  who  died  on  the  island.  I  could  guess  the  rest. 
He  was  very  handsome,  and  I  did  like  him  so  much." 

If,  instead  of  two-stepping  in  a  Salthaven  parlour,  Stella 
had  been  there,  she  would  have  declared  that  Sally  was  try- 


306  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

ing  to  "get  a  rise  out  of  the  fellow."  This  accusation  would 
have  been  unjust  in  this  particular  instance,  and  Ben  should 
have  realized  from  her  frank  confidence  that  her  interest 
in  the  stranger  was  only  natural  and  not  sentimental  enough 
then  to  arouse  any  jealousy — or  was  it? 

Anyway,  he  was  young  and  a  lover,  and  he  had  just 
been  brushing  up  against  skeletons  and  ominous  birds  in 
that  unholy  cavern,  so  he  grew  more  sarcastic  still,  not  a 
normal  vein  for  one  of  his  robust  and  tolerant  nature. 

"Handsome,  huh,  and  you  feel  so  sorry  for  him,  and  you 
like  him  so  much !" 

The  girl  appeared  delighted  with  this,  and  indulged  in 
light-hearted  singing  and  spasmodic  bursts  of  merriment,  all 
through  the  evening  meal — only^she  devoted  her  attention 
to  young  Jack  Beam  and  Linda,  quite  ignoring  Ben  except  to 
ask  once  or  twice  with  an  overcordial  smile : 

"Mr.  Boltwood,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pass  the  pepper 
box"  or 

"Mr.  Boltwood,  may  I  trouble  you  for  the  salt,"  etc., 
etc. 

The  accent  on  the  words  was  tantalizing,  and  a  sort  of 
challenge  in  itself.  And  Ben  looked  bewildered,  not  know 
ing  how  to  trump  such  a  feminine  lead. 

The  meal  over,  they  busied  themselves  with  clearing  up  the 
dishes,  and  making  preparations  for  the  night. 

While  the  rest  were  sleeping,  breathing  lightly  or  heavily 
as  the  case  might  be,  Sally  raised  the  flap  of  her  tent  and 
stole  out  into  the  thick  grass. 

The  moon,  still  the  one  solitary  wanderer,  was  an  hour 


FIVE  PACES  NORTH  307 

above  the  horizon.  A  faint  suggestion  of  haze  surrounded  its 
perfect  outline,  like  the  soft  fumes  of  a  copper  furnace  when 
the  fires  are  low.  And  yet  it  was  very  beautiful  and  so  clear 
that,  as  she  gazed  at  it  steadily,  she  could  almost  distinguish 
the  relief  of  the  great  shadow  continents  upon  its  bright 
silver  surface. 

It  was  then  that  they  came  along  the  shore — the  five  figures, 
now  clearly  silhouetted  against  the  sand,  now  more  vaguely 
outlined  against  the  indigo  of  the  ocean  which,  as  she  sat 
there,  seemed  to  swell  to  meet  the  lighter  sky,  speckless  save 
for  those  stars — whether  gold  or  silver  she  could  not  decide 
— and  for  that  glorious  moon  over  her  shoulder.  Then  as 
she  looked  back  at  it — yes — she  was  sure  of  it  now — there 
appeared,  in  the  haze  over  the  summit,  with  the  moon,  six 
others,  like  her  shadows,  if  shadows  are  ever  cast  in  palest 
white,  floating  ghostily  near  the  main  planet,  like  sundogs 
around  the  sun. 

She  closed  her  eyes  to  rub  them  clear,  opened  them — the 
apparitions — if  such  they  were — were  gone. 

A  little  from  fright,  and  more  from  caution,  the  girl  knelt 
in  the  long  grass  as  the  five  figures  advanced  by  the  rising 
tide. 

Their  gaits  were  eloquent  of  their  characters,  the  tall  man 
with  the  rolled-up  canvas,  moving  with  easy  though  calculated 
steps,  the  burly  figure  with  the  bulky  shoulders  and  the  sus 
picious  crouch,  stepping  with  feet  wide  apart.  The  slighter 
one  at  his  right  walked  with  the  spring  of  youth,  but  swag 
gered  a  little,  the  hat  tilted  on  one  side.  Bringing  up  the  rear, 
the  short  bowlegged  man  trudged  along,  behind  the  others, 


308  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

pausing  now  and  then  for  replenishment  from  a  solid,  dark 
object  in  his  hip  pocket.  The  fifth  was  equipped  with  petti 
coats,  rippled  by  the  evening  breeze.  She  was  hatless  and 
zigzagged  nervously,  jerking  her  head  this  way  and  that, 
with  quick,  curious  motions.  Far  out  on  the  cape  they  stole, 
and  bent  over  to  examine  the  yawning  holes  which  punctured 
the  surface  around  the  sentinel  palm. 

Now,  two  others  followed  them,  stealthily,  from  the  camp. 
The  sturdy  one  of  medium  height  was  Ben,  she  knew,  the 
heavier,  slowly  moving  one,  the  Captain. 

Earlier  in  the  evening  she  might  have  been  offended  with 
the  boy,  but  even  in  this  slender  maiden  with  the  spiritual 
eyes  lurked  the  sleeping  tigress  instinct.  It  awoke  now  that 
she  saw  him  walking  into  danger. 

A  gruff  challenge  sounded  on  the  night  air.  Ben  had  met 
his  enemy  at  last.  His  level,  watching  gaze  was  bent,  not 
on  MacAllister,  but  on  the  bruiser  and  the  jaunty  young  man. 
She  recoiled  a  little — it  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  Phil 
Huntington  since  Spanish  Dick  came  to  the  church  with  the 
message,  that  eventful  night. 

The  other  man  must  be  the  one  who  had  hit  Ben  so 
foully  from  behind  on  the  Salthaven  sands,  the  time  he  had 
told  her  about.  For  his  own  sake,  she  had  begged  him  to 
forget  that.  But  she  knew  men — and  he  was  most  certainly  a 
man.  They  were  so  funny,  so  hard  to  manage  in  some 
things.  They  always  insisted  on  revenge,  on  fighting  things 
out.  It  was  silly.  Didn't  do  anybody  any  good  at  all — not 
at  all.  But  if  he  would  be  so  crazy-headed,  she  must  look 
out  for  him. 


FIVE  PACES  NORTH  309 

She  summoned  the  still-sleeping  sailors,  and  then  drew 
nearer,  with  beating  heart,  hoping  in  some  way,  she  didn't 
just  know  how,  to  prevent  that  imminent  conflict.  Phil  was 
"scrappy"  enough  and  that  other  awful  man  was  just  spoiling 
for  a  fight — you  could  tell  that  by  the  ugly  way  he  curved 
that  shoulder  and  the  way  he  swung  his  hands. 

Her  senses  sharpened  by  her  fear,  she  could  distinguish 
what  they  were  saying  now — the  Captain's  caution  :  "Go  easy, 
Ben,  remember  Sally's  here";  the  answer,  "She's  asleep,  she 
won't  know — I'm  going  to  settle  that  little  thing  right  here 
and  now." 

Now  it  was  the  cool,  suave  voice  of  the  tall  man : 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen." 

"Howdyedo."  Ben  slurred  the  greeting  sarcastically  and 
rudely.  "What's  the  big  idea  ?  Sneaking  around  like  a  crew 
of  oyster-pirates?" 

He  seldom  lost  his  temper.  It  was  generally  pretty  even. 
That  was  just  the  reason  why  she  was  frightened  now  that 
she  saw  it  was  thoroughly  aroused,  though  still  under  some 
control. 

Phil  was  saying  with  cool  impudence : 

"Why  if  it  isn't  Ben  Boltwood  !  How  are  you  Ben  ?  Put 
her  there,  old  top." 

"Get  out  you — ."  Sally  thought  he  called  Phil  by  the  name 
of  the  malodorous  animal  which  all  women  shrink  from,  and 
oddly  there  recurred  to  her  that  old  piece  of  advice  by  the 
uxorious  king  who  never  took  any  himself :  "Evil  Communi 
cations  corrupt  good  manners."  My!  but  her  boy's  were 
horrid  that  night.  He  was  in  bad  company,  sure  enough. 


3io  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"I'll  tend  to  you  after  I've  settled  things  with  your  thug 
friend  here." 

But  she  grew  frightened  when  Pete  at  this  uncompliment 
ary  allusion  detached  himself  from  the  group,  sank  into  an 
even  lower  defensive  crouch,  thrusting  forward  his  thick  jaw 
insultingly  and  invitingly. 

"If  ye're  looking  for  trouble,  gents,  we're  glad  to  accom 
modate  yer!" 

But  the  Captain,  essaying  the  thankless  role  of  peacemaker, 
stepped  in  between  them. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Ben,"  he  said  a  little  roughly,  then 
aloud : 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,  but  you've  got  a  right  to  stroll 
around  this  island  as  long  as  your  intentions  are  all  right. 
What  are  they  ?" 

Sally  felt  relieved  to  have  Captain  Harve  there.  It  was 
always  good  to  have  him  around  when  there  was  trouble. 
He  always  seemed  to  be  in  command  of  himself  as  well  as  of 
his  men.  But,  after  all,  it  didn't  work  tonight. 

"What  the  hell  business  'av  you  got,  buttin'  in  here," 
growled  the  man  with  the  scar.  She  was  near  enough  to  see 
it  now.  It  glowed  peculiarly,  she  thought,  and  hatefully, 
even  in  the  moonlight. 

"Just  because  I  tell  you  to  get  off,"  retorted  Ben,  circling 
around  the  barrier  of  the  Captain's  body  and  within  a  pace 
of  the  other's  surly  face.  "Do  you  remember  me?" 

"No,  s'elp  me,  I  never  seen  yer  ugly  mug  before." 

"Take  another  look.  But  that's  so,  you  only  saw  my  back 
before." 


FIVE  PACES  NORTH  311 

The  bruiser  leered  mockingly.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  this 
hugely. 

"Pretty,  ain't  yer?  I'd  spoil  it  for  yer  if  it  wasn't  for  yer 
old  granpop  there.  It  might  break  his  heart  to  see  his  little 
grandson  hurted.  Better  beat  it,  sonny,  while  the  goin's 
good." 

Then  Sally  heard  three  things  all  at  once, — the  harsh  cry 
of  Carlotta — she  recognized  the  dancer  now — calling :  "For 
Gawd's  sake,  stop  'em,  Mac,  the  big  guy's  gotta  gun";  the 
cool  voice  of  the  leader,  who  before  had  seemed  utterly  in 
different,  cutting  the  night  air :  "Don't  be  a  damn  fool,  Pete, 
they're  not  looking  for  trouble";  and  the  more  telling  com 
ment  of  Ben's  arm — yes,  she  could  have  sworn  she  heard  the 
impact  on  the  bone  and  gristle  of  Pete's  forehead,  flush  on 
the  scar. 

The  hairy  forearm  countered.  On  the  stomach.  It  hurt 
too.  Ben  grunted  angrily,  then  rushed  him.  Pete's  footwork 
was  slow  and  heavy,  and  the  boy  caught  him  again  on  the 
scar.  The  white  mark  changed  to  angry  red,  but  the  bruiser 
got  one  back,  an  ugly  one,  on  the  mouth  this  time.  Ben 
turned  his  head  swiftly.  He  was  spitting  blood. 

"Stop  them,"  shrieked  Sally,  then  looked  around.  Jack 
Beam,  Benson,  Yeo,  and  the  gypsy,  had  joined  the  group, 
forestalling  any  foul  play. 

The  fighters  clinched  and  struggled  over  the  smooth  place 
to  the  north  of  the  palm.  Three  neat  ones,  right,  left,  and 
right  again,  Ben  got  to  the  ribs,  and  Pete  clinched,  crouching 
still  lower  in  agony  like  a  wounded  bear.  Recovering  in  the 
infighting,  he  curved  his  fist  viciously  around  to  the  kidney 


3i2  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

— again — and  again.  As  they  lurched,  panting  and  writhing, 
in  a  gleam  of  the  moonlight,  the  girl  saw  her  lover's  face. 
It  was  distorted  with  pain. 

They  broke,  and  Ben  hooked  an  uppercut  to  the  centre  of 
the  chin,  snapping  it  up  so  sharply  it  seemed  as  if  the  neck 
must  crack.  He  had  come  back !  He  was  fighting  gloriously  ! 
Two  more  on  the  mouth  and  one  on  the  heart.  Pete  backed, 
spewing  forth  crimson  slather,  and  tumbled  into  the  ditch. 

At  the  brink  Ben  waited,  his  heart  pounding,  chest  heav 
ing,  fists  lowered  a  little  but  ready.  Phil  leaped  for  him  and 
MacAllister  and  Old  Man  Veldmann  flanked  the  Captain. 

But  the  gun  which  Carlotta  had  seen  was  out.  Its  muzzle, 
coldly  blue  in  the  moonlight,  swung  in  an  ominous  arc,  cover 
ing  the  cursing  old  sinner  and  MacAllister's  face,  which  was 
white,  as  usual,  but  did  not  flinch  an  inch. 

"Avast,  ye  blackguards !"  The  Captain's  own  blood  was 
up  now.  "This  fight's  to  be  on  the  square." 

MacAllister  glanced  around.  The  three  sailors  surrounded 
him,  itching  for  an  active  share  in  the  excitement. 

"A  quick  draw  for  a  man  of  your  age,  Captain,"  replied 
the  imperturbable  one. 

"Never  mind  my  age,  better  look  to  your  man,"  retorted 
the  valorous  skipper. 

"You're  right,  let  them  get  it  out  of  their  system.  Do  'em 
good.  You  don't  mind  my  changing  this  for  a  cigarette?" 

He  pocketed  his  gun,  and  sifted  the  grains  into  the  paper, 
humorously  eyeing  the  fallen  gladiator. 

"We're  not  throwing  the  towel  in  yet,  Pete." 

The  latter  was  dragging  himself  over  the  sandy  parapet, 


FIVE  PACES  NORTH  313 

bloody  foam  bubbling  from  his  mouth  and  nostrils,  two 
streams,  dark-red — almost  black  in  the  night — trickling  down 
until  they  were  caught  in  the  hairy  chest,  and  a  big,  puffed- 
out,  blue-black  mass,  which  ring-followers  call  a  "mouse," 
over  his  left  eye,  contrasting  oddly  with  the  fiery  scar. 

Ben  stepped  back  to  let  him  get  his  footing. 

"Round  two — "  cursed  the  old  man,  thrusting  before 
Pete's  face  a  flask,  from  which,  seeing  his  opponent  scornfully 
waiting,  the  bruiser,  spewing  the  bloody  froth  from  his 
mouth,  took  a  swift  gulp.  The  taste  of  the  whiskey,  and  his 
own  swallowed  blood,  fired  him  a  little,  and  he  rushed  like 
the  wounded  boar  Sally  had  seen  on  the  trail,  straight  to 
wards  the  boy,  bellowing  blasphemies  and  obscenities. 

The  attack  was  savage.  Sally  couldn't  understand  how 
Ben  escaped  any  of  the  blows  from  the  great  fists,  smashing 
through  the  air  and  landing,  many  of  them,  with  the  force 
of  those  powerful  machines  that  drove  the  piles  in  the  mud 
around  the  Salthaven  docks.  She  clenched  and  unclenched 
her  own  small  hands,  and  bit  her  lips  till  little  dark  beads 
stood  on  them,  then  prayed  with  sobbing  intakes  of  breath. 

"Oh  God !  Oh  God !  Give  him  strength,  give  him 
strength.  Save  him !" 

She  rushed  to  Captain  Brent,  and  clutched  his  arms  with 
both  her  hands. 

"Stop  them.  Oh  Uncle  Harve,  why  don't  you  stop  them ! 
You've  got  the  gun.  Shoot  them.  Do  anything.  Only  save 
him  for  God's  sake." 

"They've  got  to  fight  it  out.  This  is  men's  work,  Sally. 
Sorry  you  had  to  see  it.  Don't  be  afraid — look  at  that !" 


314  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

But  she  retreated  from  him  in  an  agony  of  anger  and 
fear. 

"You're  heartless — you're  all  alike — all  b-b-b-brutes." 

Pete's  head  was  rocking  with  two  furious  swings  from 
Ben's  right — but  again  the  boy  had  to  give  way.  The  mechanic 
was  no  quitter,  and  that  whiskey  was  a  fiery  juice  that  had 
started  the  dynamo  of  his  powerful  frame  to  wild  swift 
working. 

Still  she  must  look  on — she  could  not  keep  away — so  she 
stood,  moaning  piteously  every  once  in  a  while,  just  on  the 
outside  of  the  circle  of  men  that  moved  this  way  and  that 
as  the  battlers  swayed.  Between  the  heads  and  shoulders  of 
the  ring,  and  the  driving  blows,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 
face.  It  was  covered  with  bruises  and  blood,  like  Pete's. 
Now  the  moon  shone  directly  on  it.  She  hardly  knew  those 
blue  eyes,  ablaze  with  a  fire  that  was  at  once  deadly  and  yet 
very  cold.  They  sickened  as  a  blow  thudded  above  the  heart. 

Again  his  face  was  hidden  in  a  clinch — all  a  snarl  of  strain 
ing  bodies,  rolling  heads,  heaving  chests,  and  locking  legs, 
and,  now  and  then,  short  six-inch  jabs  that  looked  feeble 
because  of  the  hindered  leverage,  yet  each  of  which  carried 
agony. 

Why  didn't  they  stop  them!  She  hated  that  downward 
blow  on  the  back  of  Ben's  neck.  If  they  must  fight,  why 
weren't  they  forced  to  fight  fair? 

They  broke  from  the  clinch.  What  was  the  matter?  The 
whiskey  driven  tide  of  courage  had  ebbed  from  the  fighter's 
heart.  He  stood  rocking  on  his  legs,  now  spread  wide  apart, 
a  silly  grin  on  his  reddened  mouth.  His  jaw  hung  limply. 


FIVE  PACES  NORTH  315 

The  boy  gathered  himself  together  like  a  bundle  of 
tightened  springs.  Straight  and  true,  swift  as  a  piston 
flashes  when  the  engine  speeds  on  at  seventy  miles  an  hour, 
the  blow  drove  to  the  jaw.  Pete  rocked ;  swayed  gently ;  his 
head  sank  on  one  side ;  the  powerful  knees  sagged  like  a 
child's.  In  a  flash  the  girl  saw  the  boy  measure  the  tottering 
figure.  Once,  in  a  paddock,  she  had  seen  a  farmer  strike  a 
doomed  steer  with  an  axe.  The  first  blow  was  not  true. 
She  remembered  the  thud.  He  lifted  the  axe  a  second  time. 
It  was  like  Ben's  measuring  glance.  Again  Ben's  fist  shot 
out,  straight  for  the  jaw  with  the  silly  grin,  and  the  stricken 
fighter  crumpled  in  a  heap  like  the  falling  steer. 

"No  need  of  countin'  this  time,"  said  Jack  Beam. 

His  face,  like  the  others  gathered  round  under  the  mur 
muring  palm,  had  a  savage  look.  Even  the  good-natured 
dancer's  was  gazing  in  an  unholy  fascination  at  the  victor's. 
Why  were  men  like  that — and  women,  too?  Were  they 
human  beings  after  all  ?  Even  Uncle  Harve — and  Ben.  She 
sobbed  aloud.  Then  she  saw  the  boy's  bleeding  face,  his  figure, 
relax.  She  sprang  towards  him,  but  he  straightened  and 
brushed  her  aside  with  that  steel  forearm.  The  lust  of  battle 
was  still  there. 

"Now,  Huntington,  put  up  your  dukes — if  you're  not  all 
yellow." 

That  youth  accepted  the  challenge,  forcing  an  unconcern 
which  he  was  far  from  feeling,  but  the  Captain,  Benson,  and 
the  gambler,  stepped  forward. 

"Enough  for  tonight,  young  fellow,"  said  the  former, 
"I'm  in  command  here." 


316  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  reaction  came,  and  Ben  staggered,  as  if  he,  too,  would 
have  fallen.  Placing  his  arms  over  their  shoulders,  Jack 
Beam  and  the  bosun  helped  him  towards  the  camp. 

A  half-hour  later,  cold  water  and  the  flask  revived  the 
fallen  gladiator  sufficiently  to  make  the  journey  back,  and  the 
evil  crew  retreated  along  the  beach,  very  slowly,  towards 
South  harbour  where  lay  the  yacht. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
THE  RUBY 

OF  a  truth  Sally  felt  that  the  gold — if  there  was  any  after 
all,  she  firmly  repeated  to  herself — had  already  been  ensan 
guined  sufficiently  to  justify  Spanish  Dick's  prophecies.  Still 
the  gypsy  insisted  on  reassuring  her,  thus  pleasantly : 

"It  is  only  the  leetle  beginning,  Senorita.  When  you  speak 
so  soft  to  El  Capitain  and  put  your  pretty  cheek  up  against 
his  much  whiskers — so — he  always  say  'yes.'  You  speek  to 
heem  now,  and  tell  heem  to  sail  away  in  the  beeg  ship,  pronto, 
yes  ?" 

In  the  early  morning,  when  last  night's  memories  hung  like 
a  fog  over  the  dreary,  drenched  surface  of  her  consciousness, 
she  was  tempted  to  follow  his  advice. 

She  thought  of  Ben  and  shuddered.  Never  had  she  seen 
him  as  he  was  on  the  night  before.  Had  he,  too,  been  be 
witched  by  some  unholy  spell  of  the  place?  They  had  better 
sail  away. 

But,  after  all,  she  ought  to  be  glad  that  it  was  the  brute 
with  the  ugly  face  and  the  scar,  who  had  fallen,  and  not  the 
man  she  had  loved.  She  gave  a  sob  of  thankfulness — then, 
in  her  distracted  state,  was  horrified  at  herself.  Had  loved? 
What  could  she  be  thinking !  She  caught  the  phrase  floating 
through  her  mind  like  an  evil  winged  thing  of  the  night  and 


318  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

strangled  it.  But  if  she  should  see  him  like  that  again,  in 
the  awful  rage,  her  love  would  surely  die.  Still — he  was 
hurt.  She  must  go  to  him,  do  something  for  him. 

On  the  vitality  of  young  manhood  she  hadn't  reckoned ; 
and,  in  the  tumult  of  her  thoughts,  was  almost  sorry  when  she 
saw  him  swimming  through  the  breakers.  Perhaps,  if  she 
could  have  nursed  him,  if  he  had  needed  her,  some  of  the 
pain  in  her  heart  might  have  assuaged.  But  he  was  greeting 
her  cheerily  now,  as  if  there  never  had  been  any  night  before. 
Dismal  and  reproachful  was  the  glance  she  gave  him,  though 
it  softened  a  little  when  her  eyes  dwelt  on  the  bruises,  still 
discolouring  his  face  in  spite  of  his  plunge  in  the  cool 
waters. 

"Ben,  dear,  promise  me  one  thing." 

"Sure,  what  is  it?" 

"That  you  won't  fight  again,  except  in  self-defense." 

"What  would  you  have  a  man  do?  There  are  some  things 
a  man  can't  stand." 

"Revenge  doesn't  pay — ever.  It's  better  to  stand  some 
things  than  to  turn  into  a — a — 

"A  what,  Sally?" 

"A  beast — there,  now  you  know  what  I  think." 

"Was  it  as  bad  as  all  that  ?" 

"Yes — it  was." 

She  looked  away;  the  lips  quivered. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"All  right,  Sal  old  girl,  I'll  promise." 

There,  in  its  proper  resting-place,  the  morbid  thoughts 
flew  away  from  her  head.  And  she  didn't  mind  at  all  that  his 


THE  RUBY  319 

strong  embrace  wet  her  almost  to  the  skin.  Here  in  this 
paradise,  no  one  cared  for  toilette,  or  fashions,  or  any  such 
silly,  shackling  things,  anyway.  Nor  did  she  notice  that  the 
black  ostrich  plume  of  the  sleeping  giant  was  larger  even  than 
on  the  night  before. 

The  first  cup  of  coffee  was  midway  between  the  rock  that 
served  for  a  table,  and  her  lips,  when  she  jumped  up  sud 
denly,  spilling  the  liquid  in  her  haste. 

"We  forgot." 

"What?" 

"Five  paces  North!"  she  shouted  joyously. 

He  whistled. 

"Go  to  it,  youngsters,"  interrupted  the  Captain.  "But  you'd 
better  get  breakfast  first.  We're  going  to,  at  any  rate." 

Swallowing  a  few  hasty  mouth fuls,  they  seized  pick  and 
shovel,  and  scampered  over  the  beach.  Somehow,  Ben  didn't 
move  very  swiftly  this  morning,  and  she  beat  him  to  the  palm. 

She  started  the  measuring. 

"Hold  on,  that  won't  do,"  he  called.  "Your  legs  are  not 
as  long  as  a  pirate's,  Sally." 

So  he  paced  off  the  distance  that  a  normal  man  would  cover 
in  the  measurement  apparently  specified  by  the  chart,  and 
soon  his  shovel  was  working  away,  a  little  more  stiffly  and 
painfully  than  on  the  day  before,  but  right  willingly 
nevertheless.  Soon  the  others  joined  them,  relieving  Sally, 
who  hovered  over  the  designated  spot  in  almost  an  ecstasy 
of  excitement. 

Deeper  and  wider  grew  the  trench.  Each  time  the  imple 
ments  rang  on  something  harder  than  the  sand  and  gravel,  the 


320  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

girl  almost  shrieked,  but  no  crumbling  wood  or  rusted  iron, 
and  certainly  no  gleaming  gold,  rewarded  their  staring  eyes. 

An  hour  flew  by,  and  Sally  straightened  to  her  full  height 
to  relieve  her  aching  back. 

Her  clenched  hand  flew  to  her  mouth.  Last  night's  memo 
ries  were  still  too  fresh,  so,  hesitating  to  warn  Ben,  she 
crossed  over  to  the  Capitan. 

"There  they  are  again,"  she  whispered. 

Sure  enough,  those  graceless  vagabonds  were  sauntering 
along  the  beach,  irregularly,  as  a  pack  of  scavenging  dogs 
prowling  through  city  streets.  They  were  five,  as  on  the 
night  before,  only  the  Pink  Swede  had  taken  the  place  of  the 
incapacitated  Pete. 

When  they  reached  the  neck  of  the  cape,  they  threw  them 
selves  on  the  beach,  regarding  the  workers,  Sally  even  at 
that  distance  was  sure,  with  malicious  and  threat'ning  leers. 
She  couldn't  hear  what  they  were  saying,  for  they  were  out 
of  earshot,  though  not  of  gunshot,  as  Captain  Brent  made 
certain,  glancing  at  the  rifle  lying  on  the  mound,  now  on  a 
level  with  Benson's  head. 

For  a  resting  spell,  sorely  needed,  Ben  threw  down  his 
pick  and  shovel,  and,  climbing  out  of  the  trench,  sat  on  the 
mound. .  He  saw  them,  too,  and  was  for  starting  for  them  at 
once.  But  there  was  "that  darn  promise."  He  stopped  short, 
and,  sitting  down  again,  surveyed  the  crew. 

"Never  mind,  son,"  said  Benson,  "there  ain't  no  law  to  pre 
vent  them  cuckoos  from  a-settin'  there  sunnin'  themselves, 
even  if  you  are  the  Pshaw  of  this  here  island — that  is  so 
long  as  they  don't  lay  any  eggs  in  our  nests.  But  come  to 


THE  RUBY  321 

take  a  squint  at  'em,  them  birds  look  more  like  buzzards, 
don't  they  now? — a  hatchin'  out  wicked  little  notions.  And 
there's  nothing  I'd  enjoy  more  than  shootin'  a  mean-beaked 
undertaker  of  a  buzzard,  especially  if  he  was  waitin'  to  pick 
my  bones." 

These  ruminations  were  an  excellent  excuse  for  a  rest 
from  the  boresome  work  with  the  pick,  and  Benson,  first 
twisting  off  a  corner  of  a  plug  as  dark  as  mellow  New 
Orleans  molasses,  continued,  shifting  his  figures  a  bit: — 

"Buzzards — did  I  call  'em  buzzards!  No,  son,  that's  hard 
on  the  birds — they're  more  like  pussy-footed,  slimy-hearted 
octypusses,  with  bilge-water  instid  o'  red  blood  in  their 
veins. 

"Ever  seen  an  octypuss  ?  They  got  eight  arms  with  a  hun 
dred  suckers  on  each  arm.  I  seen  one  oncet.  It  drownded 
a  man  in  the  Bay  o'  Biscay;  sucked  him  right  under.  It 
wahn't  no  pleasant  sight,  either, — them  big,  snaky  arms  a- 
coilin'  round  his  neck,  a-stranglin'  the  poor  cuss,  and  the 
wicked-lookin*  eyes  a  grinnin'  like  the  Devil  himself  had 
turned  into  a  fish. 

"But  Lor',  them  devil-fish  over  there  can't  catch  nothin' 
but  crabs,  though  they'll  try  and  start  suthin'  afore  the  sun 
sets,  or  I  don't  know  a  maintop  from  a  cutwater. 

"They  got  a  female  bird  with  them,  with  red  and  yaller 
feathers.  That  there  petticoat  sets  in  the  breeze  like  a  sail 
on  a  lugger.  But  look  out  for  her,  my  boy.  I  seen  a  little 
picture  card  onct,  in  a  store  up  Boston  way,  with  tape  around 
it.  It  had  some  chantey  of  Shakespeare's  I  guess  it  was, 
a-written  on  it,  somethin'  about  the  female  o'  the  species 


322  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

bein'  more  deadly  than  the  male.  Now  that  man  knowed 
lots.  I've  got  a  wife  and — 

Meanwhile  Sally  was  getting  impatient  and  called  out : 

"Ben,  are  you  intending  to  save  up  that  gold — if  there  is 
any — for  a  Christmas  present  ?" 

Could  they  have  heard,  they  would  have  been  surprised 
at  the  gambler's  occupation.  He  was  softly  whistling  a  senti 
mental  ballad  whose  burden  was  the  sorrow  of  a  mother  over 
her  wandering  son.  It  was  a  melodious  whistle,  like  that  of 
some  gentle  forest  bird,  and  it  issued  from  his  bloodless 
lips  with  a  great  deal  of  feeling  and  expression. 

"When  d'ye  want  us  to  rush  them s,"  asked  Old  Man 

Veldmann,  his  bleary  eyes  yearning  for  excitement,  as  long 
as  there  was  prospect  of  his  being  a  secure  spectator.  He 
felt  barred  out  by  age  from  actual  conflict,  and  was  content 
with  his  role  of  wicked,  old  Nestor  to  the  party,  though  his 
advice  consisted  of  little  besides  qualifying  expletives. 

"You  ban  a  wise  old  bird,"  jeered  the  Pink  Swede,  the 
cunning  twist  of  his  usually  expressionless  mouth  belying 
the  vacuous  look  of  his  eyes,  which  had  the  chalky  blue  of 
watered  milk.  "The  chief  he  ban  no  little  baby.  They  do 
the  dirty  work.  We  cop  the  gold." 

MacAllister,  making  no  comment,  whistled  another  stave 
of  the  pathetic  ballad. 

"Gee !  but  you  get  my  nerve,"  screamed  Carlotta.  "You're 
too  damned  cool.  Has  Pink  got  it  right?" 

He  carefully  polished  off  the  last  trill  to  his  satisfaction 
before  he  vouchsafed  a  reply. 

"Sure,  let  them  sweat  for  it." 


THE  RUBY  323 

"I  always  did  say  you  was  a  man  of  intelligence,  but,  Mac. 
will  you  promise,  when  you're  through  we'll  sail  back  where 
we  can  see  some  real  human  asphalt  once  more,  where  Long- 
acre  Square  splits  old  Broadway  and  Seventh,  and  the  pianos 
are  banging  out  the  latest  song-hits  on  the  Alley — say,  won't 
you,  Mac?" 

"If  you're  a  good  little  girl  and  don't  make  any  fuss." 

"And  say,  Mac,  no  more  rough-stuff.  I  ask  you  like  a  pal. 
These  guys  are  white  folks,  and  I  like  that  little  ongenoo. 

"Honest-to-Gawd,"  she  finished  in  a  wail  of  homesickness 
and  foreboding,  "I  wish  you'd  beat  it  now.  That  gold  won't 
do  no  one  no  good." 

"No  more  of  that,  Carlotta,  or  I'll  lock  iron  bracelets  on 
you,  and  throw  you  in  the  percolater  of  that  volcano  up 
there." 

She  looked  up  in  fright,  not  so  much  at  the  threat  as  at 
what  she  saw. 

"Look  there,  Mac,  it's  smoking  now." 

"Sure !    You'd  better  be  good." 

"But  it's  smoking,  I  tell  you.    We've  gotta  get  away." 

"Oh,  it  does  that  all  the  time." 

"It  wasn't  when  we  landed." 

But  the  sun  was  shining  brightly,  and  the  mountain  was 
as  blue,  the  woods  as  green,  as  ever  they  had  been,  so  the 
trousered  four  fell  to  playing  cards,  while  she  of  the  petti 
coat  like  a  red-lugger  sail  leaned  on  the  younger  man's  shoul 
der,  indicating  from  time  to  time  the  proper  play,  to  his 
growing  irritation. 

And  all  the  while,  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  ceaselessly 


324  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

went  the  picks ;  down  and  up,  down  and  up,  went  the  shovels, 
tossing  the  shining  clouds  of  sand. 

The  heads  of  the  delvers  were  below  sea  level  now,  and 
water  was  seeping  around  their  boots. 

"It's  a  fake  lead,  Ben,"  said  the  bosun,  "we've  gone  eight 
feet  now." 

Ben  vaulted  to  the  level  again.  The  captain  was  coming 
towards  them,  a  bit  restless  after  the  holiday,  and  eager  to 
see  the  wind  belly  the  sails  of  his  ship  once  more. 

"No  luck,  Ben?"  he  asked,  his  middle  finger  tamping  the 
olive  shavings,  mixed  with  black  speckles  of  perique  in  the 
bowl  of  his  pipe. 

"It's  nothing  but  a  fool  yarn  after  all.  We  were  crazy  to 
even  half  believe  it,"  replied  the  boy.  He  surveyed  the  area 
around  them,  which,  with  its  dozens  of  trenches,  looked  as 
if  it  had  been  sown  all  over  with  little  sticks  of  dynamite  and 
impatiently  discharged  by  some  seeker  for  the  gold. 

"That  handsome  friend  of  yours,  Sally,  was  joshin' 
you." 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Benjamin  Boltwood,  /  believe  him." 

"You'd  better  not,"  the  Captain  interrupted.  "Anyway. 
our  spree  is  over." 

"You  promised  three  days.  Wait  till  tonight,"  she  pleaded. 
"You  men  make  me  tired,  if  you  want  to  know  the  truth. 
Ben  give  inc  that  pick." 

Into  the  ditch  she  leaped,  not  caring  at  all  that  the  water 
soaked  the  black  ties,  and  struggled  with  the  pick,  while  Ben 
laughed  at  the  height  she  raised  the  heavy  implement  in 
the  air. 


THE  RUBY  325 

"Laugh  away — but  I'm  going  to  find  something,  I  know 
I  am." 

Nine  times  she  drove  the  point.  At  the  last,  she  called  in 
excitement : 

"Hear  that?" 

"What?" 

"Listen!" 

But  just  as  she  spoke,  she  struggled  with  the  pick.  The 
point  had  caught  in  something.  It  was  wrested  free;  fell 
again. 

A  dull  ring! 

"Don't  you  hear  it  ?" 

Another  metallic  sound,  a  little  sharper  this  time,  as  the 
pick,  driven  with  renewed  force,  fell  again. 

"The  shovel,  Ben!" 

The  boy  and  the  bosun  leaped  down  by  her  side. 

Two  shovelfuls  Ben  scooped  and  threw  over  the  parapet, 
almost  blinding  Sally  in  his  eagerness. 

Another — the  implement  grated  along  a  smooth,  hard  sur 
face  whose  substance  was  like  its  own. 

Sparks  snapped  from  the  impact. 

Iron ! 

Yes — it  was.  He  brushed  off  the  remaining  particles  of 
sand  with  his  cap 

The  rusted  metal  cover  of  a  great  chest  was  revealed. 

Forgetting  the  watchers,  the  girl  shouted. 

"Look  out,  there's  no  use  letting  them  know,"  warned  Ben. 

The  group  on  the  shore  had  paused  midway  in  the  deal 
and  were  gazing  intently  in  their  direction. 


326  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"I've  a  hunch  that  there's  a  nice  fat  jackpot  over  there," 
said  MacAllister,  "and  we're  going  to  rake  it  in  ourselves. 
We  don't  need  to  draw  to  our  hands  either.  Just  stand  pat, 
boys,  just  stand  pat." 

"Shovel  a  little  away  from  the  ends,  Ben,"  Sally  was 
ordering. 

Then  they  sought  for  the  handles. 

"Here,  where  my  pick  caught,"  she  said. 

"My!  but  it's  heavy,"  Benson  exclaimed.  "Lor'!  it  must 
be's  full  of  gold  beauties  as  a  kiyoodle  of  fleas." 

"Fetch  a  crowbar,"  called  the  boy,  and  Jack  Beam  ran  for 
the  required  article,  while  the  others, — Linda,  the  Captain, 
old  Joe  Bowling,  and  Spanish  Dick,  crowded  round. 

The  long  object  was  swept  clean,  and  lay  there  before  their 
eyes, — a  massive  chest,  as  long  as  a  coffin,  with  crude  figures 
upon  it,  and  encrusted  with  a  coat  left  by  the  centuries,  a  hard 
composition,  terra-cotta  coloured,  of  rust,  and  sand,  and  the 
dust  of  coral  and  burned-out  lava.  The  padlock  and  clasps 
had  been  huge  and  strong  when  clamped  by  the  horny  hands 
of  the  hiders ;  they  had  been  made  triply  tight  by  the  cunning 
fingers  of  Father  Time. 

"Lid  won't  budge,"  growled  Benson.  "It  sticks  like  it 
had  been  soldered  by  the  Devil  himself." 

Followed  an  hour  of  suspense  for  the  watchers  around  the 
ditch,  and  of  obscene  speculation  from  the  wicked  crew  on 
the  beach. 

The  chest  was  not  empty.  That  much  was  certain.  But 
did  it  contain  the  treasure?  For  all  they  knew,  it  might  be 
laden  with  tools  or  firearms  stowed  away  by  filibusters  who 


THE  RUBY  327 

had  never  returned  to  finish  their  nefarious  expedition.  Or 
—it  might  even  be  full  of  rocks  left  by  some  Gargantuan 
practical  joker,  some  whimsical  bygone  lord  of  the  island, 
some  mischievous  genie  of  the  place. 

An  hour — an  age,  it  seemed, — of  suspense — of  struggling 
shoulders,  prying  and  twisting  and  forcing;  of  grunts,  mascu 
line  exclamations,  and  feminine  sighs. 

But  in  the  end  something  snapped — gave  way.  At  last  it 
had  yielded  to  the  persuasion  of  muscle  and  iron. 

Slowly,  grudgingly,  with  creaks  of  protests — while  it 
seemed  as  if  the  four  watchers  above  had  turned  into  illus 
trations  of  suspended  animation  at  some  surgeon's  clinic — 
the  lid  rose. 

From  under  the  dark  shutter,  as  if  a  dark  cloak  had  been 
suddenly  lifted  from  a  field  of  dandelions,  or  a  thunder 
cloud  removed  from  the  sun,  leaped  a  shining,  a  dancing  of 
many  lights  such  as  they  had  never  seen  before,  such  as 
only  Pizzaro  and  his  rugged  warriors  had  gazed  upon  when 
they  stood  transfixed  and  speechless  in  the  shrines  of  the 
palaces  of  Peru. 

So  at  last  that  part  of  the  fairy  tale  came  true. 

"It  is,  it  is,  the  gold !"  breathed  Sally  in  an  awed  whisper, 
her  eyes  expanding  with  both  terror  and  delight,  as  they 
stared  at  the  shining  things.  There  they  lay,  rivalling  the 
fabulous  fortunes  of  the  Old  Incas  she  used  to  read  about 
in  the  histories,  and  yet  as  carelessly  strewn  as  the  cheap 
bone  buttons  in  Aunt  Abigail's  work  box. 

An  old  slang  phrase,  used  half-jestingly  before,  but  in  very 
truth  now,  sprang  unconsciously  to  her  lips : 


328  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"I  didn't  know  there  was  so  much  money  in  all  the  world." 

For  they  shamed  the  very  sun,  those  gleaming  coins,  some 
inscribed  with  queer  old  queens'  heads,  others  with  crowns 
or  the  profiles  of  old,  forgotten  Kings,  some  newly-minted, 
and  others  worn  with  centuries  of  travel  up  and  down  the 
highway  of  ancient  empires  and  in  great  galleons  on  the  seas. 

They  had  jingled  in  the  pockets  of  gay  caballeros  in  sunny 
Madrid;  accompanied  the  muleteers'  bells  on  the  heights  of 
the  Pyrenees ;  rung  on  the  counters  of  shops  in  Londontown 
when  women  wore  headdresses  like  cornucopias,  girdles  and 
sweeping  trains.  They  had  been  fought  for  by  musketeers 
when  Richelieu  was  more  than  King,  and  in  garrets  in  the 
shadow  of  Notre  Dame,  caressed  by  shrivelled  misers'  hands. 
To  turbaned  Turks  they  had  been  carried  in  ransom,  and 
stolen  by  bandits  in  doublets  of  green  from  rubicund  monks 
on  ambling  palfreys. 

Coveted,  caressed,  cursed,  lied  for,  fought  for,  bled  for — 
the  shining  cause  of  all  the  sins  of  the  decalogue,  at  last  they 
were  wrested  by  buccaneers  with  dripping  swords  yet  shout 
ing  hoarse  Te  Deums — from  the  holds  of  shattered  ships — 
when  the  New  World  was  really  new. 

And  now  that  it  was  old,  to  lie  at  the  feet  of  a  modern 
young  maiden  who  had  never  had  even  a  gold  eagle  to  spend 
on  pretty  things! 

The  sun,  now  high  over  head,  shot  down  his  flaming 
arrows,  transforming  into  living  rainbows  the  clusters  of 
gems  between  the  crevices  of  the  golden  piles — emeralds  as 
green  as  the  deep  sea  when  it  takes  that  hue;  sapphires  as 
blue  as  the  sea  when  it  changes  again;  diamonds  like  minia- 


THE  RUBY  329 

ture  Northern  Lights;  topaz-rings,  warm  as  honey  distilled 
by  the  busiest  of  the  queen-bees;  amethysts  rivalling  the 
lavender  tinted  hepaticas  of  the  woods;  and  rubies! 

Their  crimson  beauty  fascinated  the  girl,  and  she  thrust 
her  hand  between  the  yellow  discs,  and  picked  up  the  largest 
gem.  Holding  it  in  her  fingers,  she  turned  it  slowly  until 
the  sun,  not  in  jealousy  this  time  but  in  warning  perhaps, 
shot  another  arrow  through  it,  spilling  little  crimson  reflec 
tions  on  the  pieces  in  the  chest. 

"See,  see!"  shrieked  the  gypsy.  "It  is  the  blood!  The 
yellow  is  stain'  with  red." 

The  girl  looked  down. 

The  crimson  splashes  were  very  vivid. 

The  ruby  dropped  from  her  limp  fingers  into  the  chest 
again. 

Ben  bent  over,  and,  perhaps,  to  soothe  her  fears  as  much 
as  to  seal  their  troth,  picked  up  a  ring — it  was  a  plain  gold 
band — and  tenderly  took  her  hand. 

"You  haven't  had  a  ring  yet,  you  know,  Dear." 

"No — not  that.  Not  from  that  chest.  See !  It  is  a  wed 
ding  ring,  perhaps  cut  off  with  the  hand  of  some  girl  bride. 
No,  there's  blood  on  it,"  she  gasped.  "Wait  till  we  get  up 
North." 

She  hadn't  noticed  the  latest  comer  who  had  joined  the 
group,  he  whose  face  told  of  many  things,  as  he  listened  to 
that  last  speech.  As  he  glanced  at  the  treasure  in  the  chest, 
then  at  the  awestruck  mariners,  the  sadness  of  his  eyes  was 
lost  in  that  half -quizzical  expression,  so  mixed  with  shadow 
and  sunshine  that  it  had  won  Sally's  heart — in  a  way. 


330  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

That  sense  of  the  proportion  of  things,  which  we  call 
humour,  grows  acute  after  one  has  wandered  up  and  down 
the  world,  as  that  tiny  bubble  spins  round  its  sun  through 
un fathomed  space.  And  if  one  has  lost  at  almost  every  turn, 
and  has  a  nature  both  sound  and  sweet,  shadows  become 
high-lights  in  an  amusing  picture,  ever  shifting  and  chang 
ing  and — well,  he  can  smile  then  at  many  things. 

He  was  addressing  her  in  that  voice  which  was  so  full  of 
haunting  music,  and  courtesy,  and  gentleness,  especially  with 
her. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,  Mademoiselle.  The  treasure  is  a  fact 
now — the  superstition  which  the  good  Richard  repeats, 
nothing  but  a — superstition." 

"But  I'm  afraid  of  superstitions.    They  seem  so  real  here." 

"Besides,"  the  Frenchman  answered,  "there  is  a  romantic 
codicil  to  the  will,  which  the  old  pirates  left,  so  ironically, 
in  that  chart  on  the  stone  in  the  cavern,  and  on  the  old  yel 
low  chart,  and  the  one  on  the  back  of  the  ghost  picture." 

"I  see  it  all  now,"  the  girl  exclaimed.  "The  canvas  which 
that  man  had,  that  tall  man  who  always  makes  me  shiver — 
he's  staring  at  us  now,  there,  over  on  the  beach — was  taken 
from  the  frame  that  hangs  in  the  house  in  the  mountain." 

"You  saw  it,  then,"  he  replied.  "Yes,  it  was  stolen,  years 
ago,  by  a  wandering  painter  who  came  here  and  sought  the 
gold,  but  could  not  find  it.  Later,  he  wandered  back  to  your 
own  land,  Mademoiselle,  trying  to  fit  out  an  expedition  to 
search  for  the  treasure.  But  he  never  came  back,  so  the  tale 
runs,"  he  added  grimly.  "The  curse  must  have  followed 
him — even  up  there." 


THE  RUBY  331 

"The  curse!"  The  girl  shivered  as  she  had  when  she 
looked  at  the  tall  man. 

"Yes,  but  it  will  not,  cannot,  follow  you,  for  the  romantic 
codicil  was  written  on  the  back  of  the  original  yellow  chart — 
it  was  stolen  from  someone  I  knew  by  a  man  with  a 
scar " 

"A  scar — was  it  like  a  streak  of  forked  lightning  across 
the  cheek,  with  another  funny  one  over  it — like — like  the 
button  of  an  electric  bell?" 

"If  he  was  also  very  ugly,  yes,  but  how  did  you  know 
that?" 

She  touched  his  elbow  with  her  ringers. 

It  was  the  lightest  of  gestures,  and  no  one  saw  the  expres 
sion  of  wistfulness  that  softened  his  eyes,  for  one  fleeting 
second,  then  vanished. 

"Do  you  see  those  masts?*'  Her  hand  pointed  to  the  south 
east.  "Well,  the  gentleman's  on  that  yacht — resting.  Ben 
had  an  argument  with  him  last  night,"  she  added,  with  an 
expression  of  mingled  disgust  and  satisfaction. 

"Do  not  worry  about  him.  He  was  looking  for  the  gold — 
the  curse  will  follow  him,  if  it  has  not  already."  He  looked 
at  her  sailor  sweetheart  and  smiled. 

"And  us?"  It  was  a  mournful,  almost  frightened  way 
she  asked  this  question. 

"Oh,  not  for  you,  not  for  you."  The  sudden  vehemence, 
the  subdued  passion  of  the  words,  gave  them  the  effect  of  a 
heart-wrung  petition,  so  much  so  that  Ben  looked  at  the 
stranger,  for  he  really  was  that  to  them  still,  with  a  puzzled, 
inquiring  glance  that  was  not  entirely  free  from  suspicion. 


332  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Noticing  this,  the  man  who  called  himself  Larone  shot 
back  a  smile — winning  enough  to  have  disarmed  any  but  a 
youth  bristling  with  lover's  doubts  and  alarms. 

"You  see,"  the  former  assured  her,  "the  romantic  codicil 
provides  an  escape.  Perhaps  it  was  not  written  by  the  pirates 
themselves,  for  the  rogues  wallowed  in  blood,  not  sentiment ; 
perhaps  it  was  added  long  ago  by  some  owner  of  the  place, 
or  some  spirit  who  rules  over  it.  But  it  holds  nevertheless. 

"It  says  that  no  harm  shall  come  of  the  gold  to  seeking 
lovers  if  they  have  plighted  their  troth,  and  so  long  as  they  re 
main  faithful  and  true. 

"You  have  complied  with  all  those  conditions,  have  you 
not,  Mademoiselle?" 

Her  dark  eyes  were  luminous  now — and  yet  they  were 
moist  at  a  poignant  note  in  the  question. 

Did  she  guess?  I  wonder!  She  never  later  mentioned 
such  suspicions,  if  she  had  any,  even  in  strictest  confidence  to 
her  closest  friend.  No,  we  forget.  There  was  one  time 

But  she  was  speaking  rapidly  and  hysterically  to  Ben ;  for 
some  queer  reason  she  could  not  trust  herself  just  then  to 
address  the  stranger. 

"How  blind  we  are !  Don't  you  see  ?  This  treasure's  not 
ours.  It's  his.  Oh  I  forgot" — she  turned  nervously.  It  was 
a  funny  interruption.  "Monsieur  Larone,  Mr.  Boltwood, 
Captain  Brent."  So  on  down  the  line  she  introduced  them. 
She  seemed  to  be  talking  against  time,  to  regain  her  wits 
which  had  stampeded  suddenly.  "I  tell  you,  Ben,  that 
treasure's  his — oh,  why  don't  you  say  something?" 

Of  course  she  hadn't  given  him  time,  and  his  masculine 


THE  RUBY  333 

mind  refused  to  follow  this  swift  feminine  leap  at  conclu 
sions.  She  didn't  wait  for  him,  but  ran  on  far  ahead. 

"You  lived  in  that  house!"  she  cried  to  the  stranger. 
"You  knew  the  charts.  You  told  me  'five  paces  north.'  Why 
did  you  do  that  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  wrong.  As  I  told  you  yesterday,  I  am  just  a 
rover — who  happened  here.  As  for  the  legends,  they  are 
known  to  all  who  have  sailed  these  seas.  The  gold  would 
have  been  found  before,  perhaps,  by  someone  with  the  chart, 
for  it  was  floating  around  the  world  for  many,  many  years. 
That  is,  they  would  have  found  it,  if  they  had  had  the  wit  to 
read  the  chart  as  you  had,  and  if  they  had  not  feared  the 
place.  It  is  dreaded  by  every  man,  white  and  black,  in  the 
Caribbees.  Even  the  owners  fled  long  ago.  Shipwreck  and 
fever,  murder  and  earthquake,  and  visits  from  the  unseen 
powers — a  long  chain  of  disasters —  have  linked  this  island- 
paradise  to  the  Devil  himself. 

"And  yet  it  is  so  lovely."  He  sighed  as  his  glance  ranged 
from  the  serene  blue  mountain  down  over  the  exquisite  shad- 
ings  of  the  green  terraces,  to  the  coral  strip  bordered  by  the 
white  wreaths  of  foam,  now  receding  as  if  in  fear,  and  again 
rushing  on  as  if  they  could  not  resist  the  allure  of  its  beauty. 

"If  I  had  come  first,"  the  musical  voice  went  on,  dreamily 
now,  as  if  he  himself  had  fallen  for  a  moment  under  the  spell, 
"I  might  have  found  the  gold.  But  you  came  first.  It  is 
rightfully  yours,  your  wedding-gift  from  Heaven,  Made 
moiselle,  even  though  planted  by  wicked  old  pirates.  And 
it  is  not  half  rich  enough  for  so  sweet  and  lovely  a  bride." 


334  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Afterwards,  Sally  learned  the  whole  story,  but  not  know 
ing  it  then,  all  she  could  say  was : 

"Take  half  of  the  treasure.  You  at  least  gave  me  the 
clue." 

"You  would  have  guessed  it  anyway.  You  were  not  far 
from  the  spot — and  remember  the  conditions  and  the  warn 
ing.  To  me  it  would  have  perhaps  brought  evil." 

So  for  some  Quixotic  reason  which  had  ruled  and,  the 
practical  world  would  say,  had  ruined  his  life,  some  outworn 
code  of  Noblesse  Oblige,  perhaps  the  heritage  of  his  race,  he 
resolutely  refused.  In  the  end  he  did  compromise,  but  not  for 
himself.  It  was  when  he  glanced  at  Linda,  standing  with 
downcast  eyes  and  gazing  mournfully  out  at  sea,  that  he  con 
sented  that  twice  the  share  which  fell  to  the  sailors  should 
go  to  her,  and  a  few  gold  pieces  each  to  the  helpless  mute 
and  the  boatman  Pierre. 

At  this  concession  Sally  wondered,  for  it  showed  how 
little  he  believed  the  old  tradition.  In  fact,  in  the  brightened 
mood  of  the  moment,  she  snapped  her  own  fingers  at  the  old 
mummery. 

The  division  was  arranged  to  take  place  in  the  morning,  so 
they  parted,  with  Larone's  last  warning,  given  in  an  under 
tone  to  the  Captain. 

"Pardon  my  advice,  but  I  would  plan  to  sail  now,  Captain 
Brent.  Pierre  will  start  with  Linda  in  the  morning.  The 
Sleeping  Giant  up  there  is  beginning  to  wake.  He  does  every 
fifty  years." 

"How  about  yourself,  my  friend?"  the  Captain  answered. 
He  was  a  good  judge  of  men,  almost  always. 


THE  RUBY  335 

But  the  stranger  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

The  card-players  on  the  beach  had  vanished  now,  and  it 
was  growing  dark.  The  coast  was  clear  and  they  sought 
their  camp. 

In  spite  of  the  golden  fortune,  Sally's  sleep  that  night 
was  as  troubled  as  on  the  night  after  the  visit  to  the  cavern 
in  the  mountain.  The  same  buzzard,  mast-high,  with  fiery 
evil  eyes  that  grew  to  the  size  of  cartwheels,  tore  at  her 
heart.  The  same  gibbering  shapes  pursued  her  and  the 
mountain  spat  fire,  only  its  sparks  changed  into  yellow  in 
gots  and  coins,  that  rolled  in  a  golden  flood  down  the  slopes 
and  buried  her,  suffocated  her. 

From  the  dream,  as  before,  she  woke — it  must  have  been 
almost  three  in  the  morning — to  see,  as  she  thought,  five 
shadowy  figures  creeping  over  the  sands  towards  the  place 
where  old  Joe  Bowling,  on  his  watch,  the  last  of  the  night, 
was  standing  guard  over  the  chest. 

She  tried  to  scream,  but  could  not.  Her  throat  seemed 
paralyzed ;  a  film  swam  before  her  eyes,  pierced  by  sharp, 
whirring  lightnings  centred  by  the  moon.  A  moment  ago 
there  had  been  seven. 

But  she  heard  one  agonized  cry — then  all  was  still. 

For  some  time  she  must  have  sat  in  this  stupor,  then  the 
mists  cleared. 

Out  on  the  cape  all  seemed  peaceful  and  quiet  in  the  lovely 
moonlight.  And  the  rigid  figure  of  the  sentry  still  sat  on  the 
chest,  motionless,  his  rifle  resting  on  his  arm. 

Out  in  the  open  the  sailors  slept  the  heavy  sleep  of  wearied 
toilers. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
THE   SENTRY 

HER  eyes  had  not  deceived  her.  Next  morning  the  chest 
was  gone.  While  the  sailors  were  sleeping  so  heavily,  those 
shadows  had  taken  the  treasure  away. 

Yes,  it  was  surely  gone,  for  as  she  advanced  towards  the 
sentry,  after  her  first  chill  of  disappointment  and  fear,  she 
could  see  the  object  on  which  he  sat.  It  was  not  shaped  like 
the  chest — it  was  round  and  black — a  driftwood  log! 

How  could  they  have  done  it?  Old  Joe  was  nobody's  fool. 
He  was  at  his  post  even  now,  not  pacing  up  and  down  in 
military  fashion,  but  still  sitting  bolt  upright  and  gazing 
straight  ahead,  watchful  and  alert  as  a  faithful  sentry  should 
be.  Had  they  bodies  of  flesh  and  blood,  those  shadows  she 
had  seen  steal  across  the  cape,  or  phantom  forms  as  intangi 
ble  as  the  morning  mist  now  stealing  away  in  the  dawn,  with 
hands  that  could  work  evil  more  real  and  terrible  than  mortal 
rogue. 

They  must  have  been  ghosts,  the  vengeful  spirits  of  the  old 
pirates  themselves.  She  had  never  believed  in  such  things. 
But  could  human  hands  have  whisked  away  a  ton  of  gold  in 
an  iron  chest  and  placed  there  a  driftwood  log,  while  he  was 
still  standing  guard?  No,  no — there  were  no  such  things. 
But  how  could  they  have  fooled  him —  There  were  five ! 

336 


THE  SENTRY  337 

A  challenge  was  unnecessary  in  the  broad  daylight,  but 
why  didn't  Joe  answer  her  hail? 

The  mouth  was  open.  That  was  it.  Sleeping  at  his  post ! 
Yes,  there  were  the  furrows  in  the  sand,  where  they  had 
dragged  the  chest  away.  Sally  was  vexed.  She  grew  very 
angry.  His  stupid  carelessness  had  lost  the  treasure. 

She  shook  him.  Her  hand  recoiled  at  the  touch.  That 
figure  was  too  stiff — too  cold.  She  looked  up — 

The  grey  beard  was  matted  with  blood.  And  there  was  a 
knife,  thrust  cleanly  through  the  throat,  the  reddened  point 
emerging  at  the  base  of  the  skull. 

The  body  fell  aslant  the  log  against  which  the  thieves  must 
have  propped  him  when  they  dragged  away  the  chest.  But 
the  rigid  fingers  did  not  drop  the  bright  round  things  so 
tightly  clutched,  and  with  the  fall  of  the  body  there  was  a 
dull  clinking  sound  of  something  shifting  within  his  shirt. 

But  the  girl  could  neither  see  nor  hear — she  was  as  life 
less  now  as  the  body  lying  athwart  the  log,  and  the  sailors, 
after  they  revived  her,  refrained  from  telling  her  of  this 
last  incident.  But  it  troubled  them  mightily. 

When  they  bent  back  the  fingers  and  loosed  the  chining 
objects,  they  tossed  them  into  the  sea,  like  things  accursed. 
The  stolen  chest  they  might  seek  later,  but  these  at  least 
they  could  never  keep. 

"This  part  of  it  we'll  forget,  boys,"  said  the  Captain,  when 
Sally  was  slowly  coming  to,  "Old  Joe  had  his  one  failing — 
love  o'  money,  and  the  temptation  was  too  much.  But  he  had 
always  been  faithful  and  I  never  knew  him  to  be  dishonest 
before." 


338  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

And  the  boatswain,  cap  in  hand,  further  defended  the 
dead. 

"Ye  can't  blame  him  much.  It's  the  curse  o'  that  devil's 
gold." 

And  the  Frenchman,  when  he  came  to  the  camp,  knew 
that  he  had  made  no  mistake  in  his  judgment.  These  simple- 
hearted  seafaring  folk,  even  allowing  for  their  superstitious 
fears,  were  far  more  troubled  over  the  death  of  their  mate, 
than  over  the  loss  of  the  treasure  that  would  have  made  them 
rich  for  the  rest  of  their  lives.  And  on  the  seas  he  had  sailed 
and  in  the  ports  he  knew,  hearts  like  those  were  as  rare  as 
the  treasure  itself. 

The  simple  burial  service  was  performed  by  the  Captain 
who  remembered  much  of  the  short  rite,  having  seen  in  his 
forty-five  years  at  sea  many  weighted  forms  sink  into  the 
grey  bosom  of  the  ocean.  A  rough  cross  was  raised  above 
the  mound,  and  around  it  the  grasses  murmured  their  own 
soft  requiem,  rippling  in  gentle  waves  like  those  of  the 
sailor's  home. 

That  the  girl  was  almost  heartbroken,  the  man  could  see. 
She  blamed  herself  for  the  death  of  the  old  ship's  carpenter. 
She  had  had  warnings  enough  of  all  sorts.  Why  hadn't  she 
heeded  them — oh,  why  hadn't  she  stopped  the  search  and 
sailed  away ! 

Even  after  the  last  prayer  was  over,  her  head  dropped 
like  a  flower,  a  lovely  dark  flower  of  the  woods,  and  he  in 
turn  longed  to  comfort  her,  just  as  she  had  tried  to  comfort 
him  because  of  that  other  rough  cross  back  on  the  mountain 
side. 


THE  SENTRY  339 

Passing  strange  are  the  ways  of  Fate.  She,  a  beautiful 
thing  and  so  frail,  yet  the  daughter  of  a  bleak  New  England 
coast,  rigidly-nurtured;  he  the  frank  Gaul,  from  the  genial 
shores  of  France.  At  the  opposite  poles,  the  world  would 
say,  and  still  not  so  far  apart  as  that  same  world  thinks.  In 
ancestry,  customs,  and  all  outward  things,  unlike,  yet  akin  in 
spirit  and  with  the  same  clearness  of  vision. 

An  hour  or  two,  all  the  converse  he  had  ever  had  with 
her !  Nevertheless  he  knew  that  that  face  with  the  dark 
eyes,  sometimes  roguish  with  laughter  and  lights  of  coquetry, 
again  grave  with  wonder  and  mystery,  yet  always  looking 
at  him  with  that  forthright  glance,  was  the  one  he  had  been 
searching  for,  though  unconsciously,  all  over  the  earth,  even 
as  he  looked  for  the  little  old  lady  he  had  found  too  late. 
Too  late  ?  Yes,  both  too  late. 

If  Fate  could  only  have  been  kinder!  Perhaps — if  a  year 
or  two  earlier —  But  she  should  be  happy  at  any  rate.  And 
he — well,  he  had  an  hour  or  two — a  meagre  treasure  to 
cherish,  but  those  moments  should  be  drops,  fragrant  with 
the  double  distilled  quintessence  of  love  ....  they  would 
sweeten  an  ocean  of  memories —  But  that  would  come  later. 
(He  looked  above  at  the  mountain.)  Now  he  must  get  her 
away. 

She  was  talking  with  Captain  Brent. 

"I'd  say  to  forget  the  gold  and  sail  away  as  fast  as  the 
North  Star  can  carry  us.  But  there  are  the  others  to  think 
of — their  wives  and  children — and  some  of  them,  like  poor 
Old  Joe,  have  lots  of  grandchildren  too — and  all  are  poor. 
I  don't  want  it  now — they  can  have  all  my  share." 


340  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Larone  walked  over,  and  apologizing,  interrupted : 

"My  dear  Captain,  do  not  search  for  the  thieves  too  long. 
To  stay  after  today  is  to  slap  Fate  in  the  face.  It  may  take 
a  month — a  week — or  a  day — but  trouble  is  sure  to  come — 
from  up  there — and  what  good  would  the  gold  be  then?" 

"Monsieur  Larone  is  right,"  said  Sally.  "We  ought  to  sail 
tomorrow." 

"Perhaps — we'll  see,"  was  the  only  answer.  The  eyes  of 
both  the  Captain  and  Ben,  who  had  joined  them,  contracted 
in  suspicion,  which  the  latter  voiced  a  few  moments  later, 
while  the  Frenchman  was  pleading  earnestly  with  Sally. 

"What's  his  idea,  trying  to  scare  us  away  ?  Do  you  think 
he's  in  with  that  gang  ?  I  never  did  trust  these  coffee-coloured 
chaps.  South-Americans  and  Frenchmen,  they're  all  alike, — 
smooth-talkers  and  quick  with  the  knife."  He  accented  the 
last  word,  peculiarly,  significantly.  Sally  was  right — Ben 
had  not  been  himself.  A  very  human  jealousy  and  a  little 
covetousness,  also  very  human,  had  flowered  from  the  root 
of  all  evil,  in  the  heart  of  an  otherwise  nice  boy. 

The  Captain  turned  his  head  towards  the  mountain,  then 
answered  coolly : 

"We  want  to  be  fair,  Ben.  He  doesn't  look  crooked.  I 
don't  like  that  smoke  myself." 

"Handsome  rogues  are  the  worst.  He's  hustling  us  off 
too  quick.  He  offered  to  help  in  the  hunt,  but  that's  just  a 
blind.  He  can't  hang  around  here." 

Perhaps  he  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  himself — but  only  for 
a  moment — when  he  saw  what  Sally  was  doing.  On  her 
knees  in  the  freshly-turned  earth,  she  was  carving  with  Ben- 


THE  SENTRY  341 

son's  clasp-knife  an  inscription  on  the  arm  of  the  wooden 
cross,  while  little  Don  Alfonso  looked  on  at  the  odd  task, 
and  the  Frenchman  was  saying : 

"You  must  not  grieve,  Mademoiselle,  for  your  friend. 
You  know  there  is  a  sea  for  old  sailors  somewhere  beyond, 
which  is  fairer  even  than  that  out  there,  and  its  waves  will 
never  bring  shipwreck." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
THE  BLACK  YACHT 

HER  grief  for  the  lifeless  changed  to  concern  for  the  living, 
as  she  saw  Linda  walking  towards  them.  That  same  strained 
expression — of  alarm,  bitterness,  and  appeal,  harshened  the 
soft  curves  of  the  other's  features,  now  at  the  height  of 
their  bloom. 

Two  teeth,  as  white  as  foam,  bit  the  coral  corner  of  Sally's 
mouth,  as  she  puzzled  over  it  all.  People  were  so  foolish. 
Why  couldn't  they  be  sensible !  Ben  was  bad  enough  lately. 
Could  it  be?  No  it  must  not  be.  He  (she  wasn't  thinking 
of  Ben  in  that  flash)  was  just  the  sort  of  a  man  to  make  a 
girl  happy.  Was  she  herself  crazy?  They  must  get  back 
to  Salthaven  and  normal  ways  of  living  soon  or — (she  didn't 
finish  the  disjointed  sentence  in  her  own  mind).  To  her  he 
could  be  nothing  but  a  friend.  She  wanted  him  to  be  a  friend 
always.  Something  would  be  missing  if  she  never  saw  him 
again.  But  Ben  was  her  boy,  her  own.  Ben  was  a  part  of 
her  as  a  child  is  of  its  mother.  Fate  had  so  willed  it,  or  God, 
she  thought  reverently.  And  there  was  no  use  making  that 
gentle-hearted  girl  feel  badly — who  showed  so  plainly 

The  sailors  were  beating  the  brake  and  undergrowth,  and 
looking  in  every  likely  hiding-place,  for  a  half-mile  around 

342 


THE  BLACK  YACHT  343 

the  spot  in  the  verdure  where  the  furrows  left  the  sand. 
There  was  no  trace  of  the  murderers  nor  of  the  missing 
treasure,  except  one  trail  that  led  into  a  tangle  of  vines,  then 
stopped  short.  And  the  chest  was  pretty  heavy  for  the 
shoulders  of  even  five  stout-muscled  men. 

The  figure  of  Pierre  the  boatman,  in  trousers  and  jumper 
of  coarse  stained  duck,  appeared  in  the  opening  of  the  old 
pathway. 

"Are  you  ready,  Linda?"  the  Frenchman  asked.  "Pierre 
will  bring  the  launch  from  the  harbour  here.  We  will  not 
risk  a  meeting  with  those  kindly  gentlemen  on  the  yacht." 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  am  not  going,  after  all " 

"But  you  must,  it  is  death  if  you  stay." 

"Every  day  it  will  be  death  if  I  go.  To  see  you  again — 
never?  No,  no,"  she  shook  her  head  with  a  flash  of  the  old 
coquetry,  the  more  pathetic  because  so  bravely  assumed,  "I 
could  not  stand  that." 

Her  eyes  were  quite  calm,  but  her  hands  played  nervously 
with  the  gay  ribbon  at  her  waist,  one  of  the  few  weapons 
which  she  had  brought  in  that  small  bundle  of  hers,  and  into 
which  she  had  thrust,  not  without  design,  a  flower,  a  many- 
rayed  thing  of  orange  splendour. 

"When  one  is  away,  it  is  easy  to  forget,  Linda.  The  life 
of  love — poof !  No  longer  than  the  flight  of  a  snowflake 
from  the  sky  to  the  wave."  But  the  eyes  belied  the  light 
voice. 

From  the  bright  ribbon  one  hand  rose  to  her  heart. 

"Snowflakes!  There  are  none  here.  Brrr!"  She 
shivered.  "You  think  of  the  love  of  the  North."  One  beau- 


344  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

tiful  shoulder  shrugged  towards  the  other  girl,  who  was 
helping  in  the  search,  fifty  yards  from  where  they  stood. 
The  gesture  was  slight,  for  open  jealousy  might  bring  about 
the  very  thing  she  feared. 

"The  life  of  a  spark  then,  blown  by  the  wind,"  he  returned, 
thinking  how  like  his  life,  how  unlike  his  own  feeling,  the 
figure  was.  "It  dances  merrily,  a  little  way — then — puff — it 
is  gone." 

"When  a  woman  loves  truly — it  is  no  little  spark."  One 
word  followed,  a  French  term  of  endearment,  so  low  as  to  be 
almost  unheard.  "It  is  a  great  fire  that  burns  always,  like 
that  in  the  old  mountain  you  tell  me  of — very  warm — and 
very  deep.  The  wild  tornado  cannot  blow  it  out — only  the 
cold  earth,  when  one  is  very  old." 

She  sighed  once — a  long  troubled  sigh  with  a  little  catch 
in  it,  and  he  did  not  know  what  to  answer,  except : 

"You  will  forget,  Linda — and  you  will  be  happy." 

"Never,  Monsieur — but  it  is  not  for  a  woman  to  speak  so. 
Already  I  have  said  too  much " 

Pierre  had  reached  them  and  interrupted  volubly.  Point- 
blank,  he  refused  to  sail  that  morning.  He  had  heard  of  the 
gold.  Men  of  his  shrewd,  crafty  type  could  smell  it  out  very 
quickly.  Protests  were  vain  and  Larone,  with  the  few  francs 
left,  could  advance  no  substantial  argument  which  the  sullen 
Pierre  would  understand.  Not  one  league  would  the  little 
launch  sail  until  he  had  his  share  of  the  gold. 

The  boatman  sat  him  down  on  the  sand,  and  set  to  making 
an  hour-glass  of  his  hands,  which  was  of  small  practical  help, 
all  the  while  casting  crafty  glances  over  his  shoulder  at  the 


THE  BLACK  YACHT  345 

searchers.  Not  one  inch  would  he  budge.  So,  his  own  offer 
of  assistance  having  been  very  bluntly  refused  by  Ben, 
Larone,  hurt  at  the  suspicion  but  smiling  courteously  and 
patiently,  left  on  a  reconnaissance  of  his  own. 

"They  must  have  the  treasure  on  the  yacht,"  said  Benson, 
after  six  toilsome  hours  had  passed  in  the  fruitless  quest. 
"Toted  it  over  in  the  tender,  piecemeal — in  sacks  or  somethin'. 
Let's  take  the  long-boat  and  find  out." 

"What,  and  leave  Sally  here?" 

"Take  Dick  and  Jack  Beam  with  us,"  was  his  answer  to 
the  Captain's  objection,  "and  leave  Ben  and  Yeo  with  her. 
Give  her  a  revolver.  She  can  shoot  'n  she  won't  turn  her 
head,  either,  when  she  pulls  the  trigger.  The  thieves  won't 
trouble  her  now  they've  got  what  they're  after." 

"Thieves,  did  you  call  them  ?  Do  you  realize  they're  mur 
derers  !" 

"I  guess  they  done  it,  all  right,  Cap'n,  and  we  ought  to  be 
huntin'  them  pizen  snakes  instead  of  lookin'  fur  filthy  dollars." 

They  looked  over  at  the  headland.  A  little  coil  of  smoke 
floated  away  like  a  feather  in  a  lazy  breeze. 

"She's  getting  up  steam,  now." 

"All  right,"  said  the  Captain.  "We'll  search  that  yacht  if 
she's  armed  like  a  dreadnought,"  and  he  issued  his  orders, 
which  were  promptly  put  into  effect  except  as  to  the  disposi 
tion  of  Ben. 

"What!  Me  on  watch  here  while  you're  getting  in  that 
mess!"  he  protested.  "Let  the  gypsy  stay,  and  Zeke  Yeo, 
the  burglars  are  on  the  yacht  and  she'll  be  safe.  They'll  be 
away  from  the  place  in  an  hour  if  we  don't  start." 


346  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  Captain  yielded,  and  Spanish  Dick  and  Yeo  were  left 
on  guard.  The  crew  ran  the  boat  out  into  the  surf  and  leaped 
aboard.  Then  they  skirted  the  shore,  twenty  strokes  to  the 
minute,  fast  travelling  for  a  heavy  skiff  in  a  tumbling  sea, 
and  entered  South  Harbour. 

In  the  opening,  at  the  Captain's  command,  they  rested  on 
their  oars. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do,  men?"  he  asked  the  crew. 
"The  murderers  are  probably  armed  and  I've  no  right  to 
risk  your  lives." 

"Murderers  is  right,  sir,"  growled  Benson.  "We'll  string 
'em  all  to  that  gaff  there  afore  the  sun  goes  down ;  what  do 
you  say,  boys  ?" 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,  we  got  a  plenty  o'  rope — let  the  bloody  dogs 
swing  for  it." 

The  Captain  looked  through  his  glass.  On  deck  there  was 
but  one  on  watch.  That  individual  had  seen  the  boat  and 
called  a  warning.  Now  a  second  figure  was  climbing  over 
the  companionway.  That  made  two.  Where  were  the 
others?  Near  the  shore  the  launch  rose  gently  on  the  swell, 
and  on  the  mountain-side  a  little  thin  spiral  of  smoke 
wavered.  A  fire — probably  near  the  haunted  house,  which 
was  concealed  by  the  foliage. 

He  gave  the  word  and  they  pulled  for  the  yacht.  Three 
lengths  away,  a  face  appeared  over  the  taffrail,  forward, — 
an  ugly  face  with  a  left  eye  that  was  now  no  more  than  a  slit 
in  a  huge  discoloured  circle.  Aft,  rose  the  wicked  saw  mouth, 
with  the  brown-stained  teeth,  and  the  green  bleary  eyes. 

"Belay,  there,  ye  crawlin'  sons  of  cuttlefishes,"  was  the 


THE  BLACK  YACHT  347 

gracious  greeting,  backed  by  his  companion's  insolent  hail 
and  the  more  eloquent  forty-five. 

"Sheer  off,  or  I'll  drill  lead  into  yer  blasted  hides  with 
this  here  little  riveter." 

The  blades  swept  through  the  water — a  boat's  length 
nearer.  From  the  rail  came  a  crack  like  the  snap  of  a  black- 
snake  whip.  A  singing  little  object  cut  the  crest  of  the  wave 
near  the  bow  oar ;  another  sent  a  little  fountain  of  spray  over 
the  stroke  and  went  ricocheting  on  its  way. 

Truer  was  Captain  Brent's  aim.  A  maddened  yelp  like 
a  mongrel's  when  struck  by  a  stone,  issued  from  the  wicked 
saw  teeth.  The  grey  head  ducked. 

"Winged  by " 

Another  length,  the  rudder  swung,  the  starboard  oars 
were  shipped  suddenly,  and  the  boat  sheered  alongside. 

Over  the  rail  tumbled  the  sailors,  but  the  two  faces — the 
one  with  the  discoloured  eye  and  the  scar,  and  the  old  man, 
had  disappeared.  Deck  and  cabin  were  searched — no  sign 
of  the  chest  or  the  fugitives,  except  the  half-sullen,  half- 
defiant  girl  who  had  commented  so  disrespectfully  on  the 
Captain's  figure  during  their  first  and  more  formal  visit 
to  the  yacht. 

"Now,  yaller  bird,"  said  Benson,  "be  nice  an'  ladylike  and 
tell  us  where  yer  mates  went." 

Carlotta  jerked  her  head  saucily  towards  shore. 

Three  heads,  like  tiny  corks  on  the  water,  were  edging 
toward's  the  beach, — Pete's  and  Old  Man  Veldmann's  and  a 
third,  that  of  the  sailor  who,  mutinous  at  first,  had  later 
been  won  over  by  MacAllister's  wiles  and  the  lure  of  the  gold. 


348  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

But  what  was  that  thing  just  behind  the  last  swimmer, — 
long,  grey-white,  and  elliptically  curved,  like  the  white-leaded 
underparts  of  an  overturned  boat?  A  triangular  object  like 
the  centreboard  of  a  small  craft  was  now  visible.  But  the 
shape  was  not  drifting  or  floating.  It  was  curving  swiftly  on. 

"A  shark,  so  help  me,"  shouted  Benson. 

The  arms  of  the  swimmers  were  reaching  out  frantically — 
and  the  watchers  were  armed,  but  not  a  single  barrel  was 
sighted  over  the  rail.  Cruel,  perhaps,  but  they  were  stern 
men  of  the  sea,  and  those  struggling  heads  yonder  had  mur 
dered  their  friend.  If  one  of  Nature's  executioners,  that 
grey-finned  thing  hurtling  through  the  waves,  could  get  them, 
why 

"More  speed  to  those  fins!"  Could  she  have  heard  that 
hoarse  prayer  of  Benson's  and  seen  the  savage  look  on  his 
face,  Sally  would  have  wondered  still  more  at  the  strange 
ways  of  men. 

Then  rending  the  air,  came  the  agonized  cry  of  a  soul  in  the 
jaws  of  the  executioner.  The  startled  sea-birds  above  echoed 
it  weirdly  back  again.  Through  his  glass,  the  Captain  looked 
once — saw  the  head  sucked  from  under,  very  swiftly.  It 
did  not  bob  up  as  before,  only  the  waters  were  darkened 
suddenly,  as  if  a  cask  of  wine  had  been  spilled  into  the 
brine.  He  shot  the  glasses  back  in  the  case  and  turned  away 
his  head. 

"The  law  of  the  sea  has  taken  its  course,"  he  said  grimly ; 

"And  the  curse  of  the  gold,"  the  bosun. 

The  sailor  of  the  old  Alice,  though  not  the  worst  of  the 
renegade  crew,  had  paid  the  price  of  covetousness. 


THE  BLACK  YACHT  349 

There  was  little  inclination  for  conversation  now,  and  they 
continued  the  search,  but  not  a  gold  ingot  could  they  find. 

"The  female  corby's  below — "  Benson  reported,  "bad  case 
o'  nerves  after  what  just  happened.  She's  pitchin'  and  tossin' 
in  her  bunk  like  a  catboat  in  a  blow." 

By  stress  of  atrocious  threats,  which  he  never  would  have 
fulfilled,  he  forced  her  into  the  captain's  presence.  The 
latter  addressed  her  sternly: 

"See  here — that  won't  do  any  good.  I  want  you  to  answer 
a  few  questions.  I  don't  know  what  you're  doing  here  with 
this  crew,  but  your  friends  have  murdered  one  of  my  men." 

"Murdered !"  she  gasped. 

"Yaller  bird's  play-action',"  sneered  the  incredulous  boat 
swain,  but  the  surprise  and  fear  seemed  natural. 

"Yes,  foully — if  you're  innocent,  you  may  prove  it  by 
your  answers." 

"What  do  you  want?"    She  choked  out  the  question. 

"Who  killed  Old  Joe?" 

"I  don't  know — didn't  know  it  was  him  that  was  killed — 
didn't  know  anyone  was  killed." 

"Now  be  careful." 

"It's  God's  own  truth." 

"Don't  be  frightened.     If  you  tell  us,  we'll  protect  you." 

"The  only  thing  I  know  was,  that  it  wasn't  the  Kid." 

"The  Kid?     Who— Huntington?" 

Averting  her  face,  a  strange  attitude  for  one  of  her  assur 
ance,  she  nodded.  Tears  had  inundated  with  rivulets  the 
rouge  on  her  face,  the  lids  were  swollen,  and  she  had 
intermittent  attacks  of  sniffles — truly,  a  different  girl  than 


350  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Carlotta  of  the  spotlight.  A  searching  one  was  being 
turned  on  her  now  and  for  once  she  did  not  relish  her 
conspicuousness. 

"Was  it  one  of  the  other  four?" 

"Maybe — if  you  say  someone  was  croaked.  I  didn't  see 
it,  an'  they  didn't  tell  me." 

"Didn't  they  tell  you  about  the  gold  ?" 

"No." 

"Think  hard  now.  We  don't  want  to  be  rough." 

"Well,  it  isn't  here  anyway." 

"Where  is  it  then?" 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know — if  you  only  won't  take  it 
out  on  the  Kid.  He's  a  fool  Kid,  but  he'd  never  croak  a 

guy." 

"All  right,  we'll  be  fair  with  him." 

"Well,  they  said  they  planted  the  gold  somewhere  on  the 
island.  They  wouldn't  tell  me  where.  Afraid  I'll  double- 
cross  'em." 

"Are  you  sure  about  that?    Isn't  it  here?" 

"Yes,  I'll  swear  it — on  a  Bible — a  stack  of  'em  if  you 
want — Old  'n  New  Testament."  She  had  regained  some 
of  her  composure,  as  this  snappiness  showed. 

"Be  careful  now." 

"It's  the  truth,  whole  truth,  nothin'  but  the  truth — " 
she  chanted.  "Look,  if  you  like." 

That  most  of  her  meagre  evidence  was  true,  the  Captain 
believed.  He  called  Ben  aside. 

"It  might  be  wise  to  hold  the  yacht  and  nab  the  rascals 
when  they  come  aboard." 


THE  BLACK  YACHT  351 

"But  we  can't  leave  Sally  with  those  thugs  loose  on  the 
island." 

"That's  just  what  I'm  afraid  of.  The  old  devil  and  the 
chap  you  licked  are  watching  us,  you  can  bet,  and  they 
won't  try  to  hoard  tonight.  Better  hold  the  boat  for  hostage, 
steam  to  the  Cape,  get  Sally,  Dick,  and  Yeo,  then  beat  around 
to  Rainbow  Bay.  We  can  get  reinforcements  from  the 
North  Star  and  search  the  island  thoroughly,  or  wait  for 
them.  Their  provisions  are  on  board  and  they've  no  way  of 
escape,  so  they'll  have  to  give  themselves  up  in  the  end. 

"Benson,  do  you  understand  the  dark  and  devious  ways 
of  a  steam-engine?" 

"Are  you  insultin'  me,  Captain,"  the  bosun  replied,  with 
injured  dignity.  "Do  you  think  I'm  that  treacherous  and 
degraded?  Jack  Beam  here  onct  lowered  himself  by  flirtin' 
with  one  of  the  damned  things,  on  some  ugly  hulk  of  a 
Fruit  Steamer.  But  he  saw  the  light  and  reformed,  swearin' 
never  to  ship  again  'cept  on  an  honest,  God-fearin'  square- 
rigger." 

"Beam,  can  you  run  it?" 

"I'll  take  a  try  at  it,   sir." 

Steam  was  already  up,  the  rascals  evidently  having  planned 
departure,  and  a  little  later,  Carlotta  from  the  porthole 
saw  the  darkling  shores  apparently  moving.  She  rushed  on 
deck  to  welcome  her  friends,  but  instead  of  the  imperturbable 
MacAllister  she  found  Captain  Brent  at  the  wheel.  And 
then  she  repeated  the  old  tricks  of  her  Standish  regime — 
"Worse  'n  nine  drownin'  cats  all  fightin'  in  a  sack,"  the 
bosun  described  it — but  it  did  her  no  good,  and  she  subsided 


352  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

when  the  skipper  threatened  to  put  her  in  irons,  or,  if  they 
could  not  be  found  on  board,  to  lash  her  to  the  mast  instead. 

In  the  East  the  moon  appeared  as  they  neared  the  Cape. 

"Looks  like  one  of  them  gold  coins  of  the  treasure  chest, 
balancin*  itself  there  on  the  tree-tops,  don't  it  now,"  remarked 
Benson,  with  his  head  on  one  side. 

"They  all  roll  away,  when  we  chase  'em,  they're  that  pesky 

— but,  by ,  what's  that !  they're  seven  of  'em — red,  too. 

What  does  that  mean?" 

"Where  did  you  get  it  ?    I  don't  see  no  seven." 

"That's  the  funny  thing  about  it — I  hain't  had  any  licker — 
but  I  saw  them  seven — blood  red,  I'd  swear  it.  But  we're 
anchorin'. — Lend  a  hand  there." 

After  the  anchor  chains  had  rattled  out  and  the  yacht  had 
been  moored,  the  boat  slipped  from  her  side  to  the  shore. 
But  they  found  only  Linda  cowering  by  the  fire,  Zeke  Yeo 
with  a  broken  head,  and  Spanish  Dick  swiftly  patrolling  the 
camp,  and  looking  apprehensively  into  the  massed  shadows 
of  the  trees  inland,  from  which  some  night  bird  or  mocking 
voice  hooted  mournfully  at  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
ON  THE  TRAIL  AGAIN 

SALLY  had  spent  the  long  afternoon  gazing  offshore  for  a 
sight  of  the  longboat,  or  watching  the  still  motionless  needles 
of  masts  pricking  the  sky  above  the  headland  that  guarded 
South  Harbour.  So  slowly  passed  the  time,  it  seemed  to  her 
mind,  stored  with  the  Biblical  lore  of  her  childhood,  as  if 
the  onward  march  of  the  sun  had  again  been  halted  by  the 
old  warrior  of  Israel,  while  he  advanced  towards  the  white 
walls  of  the  cloud  city  in  the  west. 

But  no  mighty  trumpets  rang.  Everything  was  so  still. 
Sometimes,  startled  by  the  mere  whisper  of  the  trees  back  of 
the  tent,  the  crackle  of  a  twig  as  a  heavily  freighted  armadillo 
moved  or  a  serpent  glided  into  the  underbrush,  she  turned 
her  head  in  alarm  towards  the  wood.  They  were  all  harmless 
sounds,  but  her  nerves  and  imagination,  tuned  to  higher  than 
concert  pitch  by  the  events  of  the  night,  translated  them  into 
voices  of  the  spirits  of  the  isle,  or  the  footfalls  of  the  murder 
ers  themselves,  bent  on  some  further  deeds  of  darkness. 

The  gypsy,  seeing  her  distraction,  forbore  from  his  de 
pressing  auguries  and  tried  to  cheer  her  with  new  tales  and 
improvised  songs,  while  Yeo  drowsed  before  the  tent,  but 
the  taut  nerves  would  not  relax. 

353 


354  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

But  that  last  time  she  had  turned  towards  the  mys 
terious  wood — the  sun  hung  just  a  hand's  breadth  above  the 
sea-line  then — her  imagination  had  not  tricked  her.  A  human 
form  was  brushing  aside  the  branches  that  over-arched  the 
once-clear  pathway.  Some  relief  she  felt  when  she  re 
cognized  the  giant  mute  Alexandre,  but  the  shambling  gait 
of  his  weak-hinged  knees  and  huge  splay  feet  was  hurried, 
and  he  kept  glancing  in  fear  back  at  the  thicket  from  which 
he  had  just  emerged. 

With  uncouth  gibberings  he  handed  her  a  slip  of  paper, 
the  unaddressed  side  of  a  long  envelope,  and  the  girl  thought 
she  could  read  the  reason  of  his  fear  in  the  message,  hastily 
scrawled  thereon : 

"Come  quickly — I  am  dying. 

Larone." 

With  a  strong  effort  of  the  will,  she  controlled  her  trembl 
ing  nerves,  told  Spanish  Dick  of  the  message,  and  unheeding 
his  protests,  followed  the  black  into  the  shadows.  She  had 
gone  but  a  hundred  yards  through  the  green  gloom  of  the 
forest  when  she  stopped  short  at  a  gutteral  sound  of  terror 
from  her  shaking  guide.  She  looked  around,  but  at  first 
saw  nothing  to  arouse  his  apprehension,  only  a  gay  cockatoo 
on  a  branch  above  their  heads,  squawking  and  ruffling  his 
vermilion  and  azure  feathers  while  he  gazed  down  in 
curiosity  at  the  thicket  beside  the  path. 

Angrily  tossing  off  her  own  fears,  she  started  to  pass  the 
rooted  black,  when  she  almost  ran  into  the  object  of  his 


ON  THE  TRAIL  AGAIN  355 

terror  protruding  from  the  thicket — a  long,  slender,  cylindrical 
thing.  Promptly  her  heart  went  as  cold  as  that  rifle-barrel 
itself. 

Behind  her  someone  laughed,  she  felt  her  arms  seized, 
and  a  thick  scarf  was  bound  swiftly  across  her  mouth  and 
jerked  into  a  vicious  knot — a  needless  precaution,  for  she 
could  not  have  screamed  just  then  if  her  lips  had  been  free. 

Darting  this  way  and  that,  her  eyes  gathered  in  the  figures 
of  the  group  around  her, — the  tall,  dark  man  she  feared, 
the  pink-complexioned  one  with  the  tow  scalp  and  the  red 
undershirt,  and  behind  them,  the  sullen  face  of  Phil,  and  the 
bowlegged  old  fellow,  now  with  a  hasty  bandage  across  his 
left  shoulder,  and  grinning  as  wickedly  as  one  of  Rip  van 
Winkle's  bearded  bowlers  when  the  pins  go  crashing  for  a 
thunderous  strike. 

Rapidly  she  was  pushed  on  through  the  tangle  into  a 
break,  where  the  five  held  council. 

The  Pink  Swede  and  the  Old  Man  returned  toward  the 
camp,  as  the  others,  with  the  prisoner,  travelled  in  the 
same  general  direction,  but  at  an  angle  to  the  path,  deflecting 
to  the  north  of  it.  Forty  yards  from  the  grove  where  her 
own  tent  had  been  pitched,  they  released  her  from  bonds  and 
gag — a  queer  manoeuvre  which  she  could  not  understand. 
For  a  moment  she  stood  irresolute.  Then  gathering  herself 
together  she  made  a  dash  for  freedom,  crying,  very  foolishly 
as  she  afterwards  learned : 

"Dick,  Dick,  look  out !" 

No  sooner  was  the  warning  uttered  than  she  was  seized 
again  by  her  amused  captors,  bound  and  gagged  as  before. 


356  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Even  as  she  struggled  she  could  see  the  barefooted  gypsy, 
running  with  a  smooth  roly-poly  gait,  like  that  of  the  under 
sized  Italian  labourers  that  work  on  our  ditches,  straight 
towards  the  underbrush,  cocking  his  rifle  as  he  ran.  A 
little  to  the  west,  she  thought  she  heard  the  thicket  crackling 
under  the  feet  of  someone — probably  Yeo — a  cry,  then  no 
more. 

They  forced  her  back  through  a  labyrinth  of  vines  and 
bushes  into  the  heart  of  the  forest,  not  pausing  until  they 
reached  a  naturally  fortified  glen,  where  they  found  Pete  on 
guard,  half  way,  she  reckoned,  not  as  the  crow  flies  but  on 
an  angle,  from  the  Cape  to  the  headland.  The  fastness  was 
well-buttressed  by  giant  trees,  equipped  with  a  chevaux  dc 
frise  by  the  thicket  and  interlacing  vines,  and  darkened  even 
at  noontide  by  their  heavy  cordage  and  the  thick  foliage 
overhead.  Now  the  only  illumination  was  the  flame  licking 
up  the  pile  of  fagots,  over  which  the  old  man  raised  three 
pronged  sticks  like  the  poles  of  a  wigwam,  suspending  a 
rusty  kettle  from  their  juncture. 

A  little  later  the  two  huskies  returned,  one  with  a  box, 
a  slab  of  bacon,  and  a  shoulder  of  ham,  under  his  arms,  the 
other  with  two  gunny  sacks  of  provisions  slung  over  his 
back. 

"A  lead-pipe  cinch,"  Pete  reported.  "He  fell  for  it  like 
a  sucking  baby." 

The  series  of  manoeuvres  was  easily  analysed  now, — the 
message,  borne  by  the  impressed  black  had  been  a  decoy, 
those  sacks  and  cases  prizes  from  her  own  camp,  lifted  while 
the  gypsy  searched  the  underbrush  after  her  warning.  For 


ON  THE  TRAIL  AGAIN  357 

some  queer  whim  of  their  own,  they  had  not  killed  him.  It 
would  have  been  very  easy.  Perhaps  they  wanted  to  play 
on  the  sailor-superstitions  of  the  crew.  Of  course  she  could 
not  guess  that  the  yacht  had  been  taken  as  hostage,  and  that 
she  herself  had  just  been  kidnapped  in  reprisal. 

All  food  she  refused,  and  sat  reclining  against  a  pile  of 
cut  boughs  on  the  outskirts  of  the  camp.  Once  she  let  her 
hand,  now  free  of  the  thongs,  grope  underneath  the  leaves. 
She  felt  something  hard,  and  her  fingers,  feeling  along  the 
surface,  lighted  on  a  padlock. 

The  chest ! 

She  had  found  it  again  but  to  what  avail  now? 

Bound  around  it  were  iron  chains,  and  through  them 
thrust  two  three-inch  tree  butts,  by  which  they  had  carried  it 
on  their  shoulders,  leaving  no  furrows  after  they  left  the 
sand.  Evidently  they  had  returned  after  depositing  the 
chest  here,  and  had  trampled  down  bushes  and  grasses  to 
make  the  false  trail  which  Ben  and  the  sailor  had  followed, 
leading  to  nowhere. 

Suddenly  she  recalled  that  other  form  which  she  had  seen 
in  the  dawn,  bolstered  up  against  the  driftwood  log.  She 
sprang  up,  passed  to  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  and  watched 
the  three  precious  blackguards  eating  so  ravenously  that 
they  reminded  her  of  jackals  she  had  once  seen  feeding 
behind  the  iron  bars  in  a  zoological  garden.  Their  leader 
was  as  cool  as  ever  and  quite  as  fastidious — the  more  danger 
ous  for  that,  she  thought,  and  Phil  was  far  more  slovenly 
and  gross  than  in  the  old  debonair  days.  His  face  was 
inflamed,  the  eyes  swollen  and  heavy-lidded. 


358  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Drinking  more  than's  good  for  him,"  she  commented  to 
herself. 

Her  one-time  fiance  came  over  and  lounged  carelessly 
beside  her. 

"As  your  friend  Ralph  Waldo  says,  'it's  a  small  world 
after  all.'  " 

She  did  not  answer  and  he  tried  another  tack. 

"Well,  Miss  Sally  Fell,  the  shoe's  on  the  other  foot  now." 

Again  no  response  and,  angered,  he  rasped  out : 

"That  was  a  mean  trick  you  played  on  me  last  month." 

Last  month !  Was  it  only  as  far  behind  them  as  that  ? 
Years  had  passed,  she  would  have  said — almost  a  lifetime. 
Still,  even  though  she  had  acted  according  to  her  convictions, 
her  Puritan  conscience  troubled  her  a  little;  she  felt  pity 
for  the  boy  she  had — yes,  jilted — there  was  no  other  word — 
and  at  the  very  altar.  How  like  an  old  play  it  had  all 
been,  but  a  play  without  any  humour  at  all.  Perhaps  she  was 
responsible,  in  part,  for  his  flight,  and,  most  of  all,  his  moral 
disintegration,  so  evident  now. 

"I  was  awfully  sorry,  Phil,  but  you  know  when  I  became 
engaged  to  you,  Rogers  had  brought  back  word  that  Ben 
had  been  lost.  I  promised  Ben  first,  so  when  that 
message  came  in  the  bottle,  what  could  I  do  but  go  ?" 

"You  might  better  have  stayed  with  me.  A  pretty  mess 
you're  in  now." 

"What  are  you  doing  with  these  criminals  anyway?"  she 
retorted.  "They're  nothing  but  thieves  and  murderers." 

"Look  out — they'll  hear.  It  wasn't  my  fault.  I  couldn't 
help  myself." 


ON  THE  TRAIL  AGAIN  359 

"Why  don't  you  leave  them?  You  can  get  to  the  North 
Star  and  help  me  escape." 

"I  will  if " 

"If  what?"    Her  question  had  a  suspicious  note. 

"If  you'll  make  good  your  promise  to  me." 

"You  can't  mean  what  you're  saying;  you've  been  drink 
ing,  but  you  can't  have  fallen  as  low  as  that." 

"You've  got  it  coming,  Sally  Fell,  after  the  way  you've 
treated  me." 

"In  Salthaven,  we  always  considered  the  Huntingtons 
gentlemen." 

"And  a  perfect  hundred  per  cent  lady  always  keeps  her 
promise.  Come,  Sally,  you  know  way  down  in  your  heart 
I  could  give  you  a  better  time,  make  you  happier,  than  Ben 
Boltwood." 

He  reached  towards  her  but  she  recoiled. 

"Keep  your  hands  to  yourself,  Philip  Huntington." 

"Just  as  you  say,  Miss  Prisms  and  Prunes — but  you'd 
better  think  twice — .  Come,  Sally,  be  a  good  fellow — just 
say  the  word  and  I'll  see  that  you're  safe." 

"No,  hard  as  your  friends  look,  I'd  rather  trust  them." 

"Thanks,"  he  bowed  maliciously.  "That's  going  some, 
but  you'll  change  your  mind — in  the  morning — after " 

"After  what?" 

"Never  mind,  you'll  see." 

"My  answer  will  be  the  same — even  if  it  means  death." 

He  left  her,  and  soon  four  of  the  five  figures  were  stretched 
at  full  length  in  various  postures  around  the  glen,  Mac- 
Allister  keeping  watch  silently  by  the  fire. 


360  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Every  once  in  a  while  he  abstractedly  stirred  the  embers, 
sending  a  little  fiery  nebula  of  sparks  to  the  arching  roof  of 
the  trees. 

Like  all  who  gaze  into  the  red  heart  of  a  fire,  whether  on 
the  hearthstone  or  in  the  forest  glen,  he  seemed  to  be  seeing 
visions,  evil,  perhaps,  but  very  absorbing,  in  the  pantomime  of 
the  dancing  flames.  A  smile  flicked  across  his  features  like 
the  cruel  lash  of  a  whip,  and  she  knew  then  that  here  was  the 
murderer  of  Old  Joe.  His  hand  might  not  have  dealt  the 
blow,  but  his  cold,  calculating  engine  of  a  brain  had  furnished 
the  motive-power. 

The  flames  died  down  at  last,  and  then,  glancing  at  the 
men,  now  deep  in  slumber,  the  girl  feigning  hers  perfectly, 
he  rose  and  went  over  to  the  chest,  lifted  the  concealing 
boughs,  cautiously  unwound  the  chains,  and  raised  the  lid. 
As  much  of  emotion  as  those  cold  features  would  ever  show, 
they  revealed  now  in  the  gloating  expression,  as  he  sifted 
the  shining  beauties  between  his  fingers. 

"The  best  day's  work  I  ever  did — or  night's  either,"  she 
heard  him  mutter. 

Closing  the  lid,  he  examined  his  automatic  and  resumed 
his  watch,  while  she  sank  into  real  slumbers  at  last. 

In  the  morning,  before  sunup,  a  breakfast,  cold  for  fear 
now  of  betraying  smoke,  was  eaten  hastily,  and  this  time 
Sally  accepted  her  own  portion  for  strength  against  the 
unknown  trials  of  the  day. 

All  traces  of  the  fire  were  scattered,  then,  well-guarded 
by  Nature  as  was  the  place,  for  further  security  they 
disengaged  vines  from  the  tree-trunks  and  trailed  them  over 


ON  THE  TRAIL  AGAIN  361 

the  chest  and  the  sacks  which  they  had  brought  from  the 
yacht  to  convey  thither  the  gold.  In  front  they  rolled 
boulders,  and  when  their  work  was  finished,  under  the 
gambler's  direction,  no  trace  of  the  iron  was  visible. 

As  the  old  man  was  patting  the  last  creeper  into  place, 
like  a  "counterpane  over  the  gold  babies,"  he  said,  he  sud 
denly  stood  mute  and  transfixed. 

All  eyes  were  bent  on  the  leafy  screen  from  which  a  little 
wriggling  fork  darted,  behind,  a  flat  spear-head  and  full 
three  feet  of  muscle  and  gristle,  coiled  for  the  deadly  spring. 
Something  whirred  through  the  air — it  was  not  the  deadly 
forked  thing,  for  this  had  the  flash  of  steel.  The  knife 
pierced  the  adder's  head  just  behind  the  poison  wells  in  its 
throat,  and  pinioned  the  whole  squirming  length  against  the 
tree. 

The  gambler's  nerveless  hands  were  expert  at  many  things 
besides  stacking  cards.  Not  for  nothing  had  he  swallowed 
swords  and  outlined  the  form  of  the  painted  lady  with 
whirling  knives,  that  year  in  the  dime  museum  in  Frisco. 

Such  hairtrigger  accuracy  was  terrifying.  Sally  thought 
of  that  other  knife  she  had  seen,  twenty-four  hours  before — 
the  reddened  one — and  shuddered. 

What  was  he  saying? 

"Old  Timer,  the  good  Book  says  'thou  shalt  not  covet,'  " 
he  quoted  sardonically.  "It  grieves  me  to  see  how  thou'st 
forgotten  the  Ten  Commandments  and  all  my  holy 
teachings." 

And  the  Pink  Swede  in  turn  jeered  the  maddened  old 
man. 


362  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Ay  tank  you  ban  tarn  fool.  The  whisky  you  always  pack, 
she  breed  snakes  like  rabbits." 

After  another  whispered  council,  in  which  her  ears, 
sharpened  by  fear,  distinguished  one  question  of  Pete's, — 
"Why  don't  you  leave  'er  here,  Cap,  with  the  chest,"  and 
the  reply:  "No,  they've  captured  the  yacht,  and  we  can't 
pack  too  much  baggage,  she's  safer  up  there,"  the  gambler 
and  Phil  left  the  camp,  Pete  and  the  Swede  standing  guard. 
Her  mouth  was  swathed  in  the  scarf  again,  and  she  was 
dispatched  northward  with  the  wicked  old  man  as  her  guide. 
At  first  she  was  glad  that  it  was  not  the  gambler. 

Up  the  mountain  slope  he  drove  her,  through  its  forest- 
covered  sides,  past  the  haunted  house,  a  glimpse  of  whose 
forlorn  walls  she  caught  as  they  toiled  upwards,  then  among 
the  ragged  rocks  and  sulphurous  saucers  pocking  the  scarred 
face  of  the  mountain  below  the  crater,  and  boiling  feverishly 
now.  Thick  murky  scarfs  of  vapour  swathed  their  yellowed 
lips,  as  that  silken  gag  muffled  her  own,  and  wandered  dis 
consolate  over  the  whole  area. 

Over  the  divide  they  passed  and  zigzagged  down  to  the 
brink  of  the  gorge.  Northward  she  could  see  the  spars  and 
masts  of  the  North  Star  beautifully  pencilled  against  the 
turquoise  of  the  sky,  and  not  far  away,  the  graceful  lines  of 
the  yacht,  all  like  a  cheerful  painting  in  bright  water  colours. 

Above,  the  black  ostrich  plume  had  expanded  to  four 
times  the  size  when  first  she  saw  it,  and  near  it,  that  black 
speck  upon  the  blue  sank  and  grew  as  it  sank,  like  the  evil 
thing  of  her  dreams,  until  she  could  once  more  distinguish 
the  wide  stretched  wings  of  the  waiting  buzzard. 


ON  THE  TRAIL  AGAIN  363 

Where  was  he  taking  her  ?  To  the  yacht  ?  No,  they  said 
it  had  been  captured,  and  when  they  reached  the  frail  bridge 
by  the  waterfall,  they  turned  to  the  west  and  the  sea-wall. 
Her  hands  were  free,  so,  remembering  some  stories  she 
had  read  of  the  expedients  of  other  sorely-pressed  heroines, 
she  untied  the  red  sailor's  knot  from  the  V  of  her  middy- 
blouse,  and  dropped  it  upon  the  trail.  But  the  trick  did  not 
work  as  in  the  old  tales,  for  a  gust  of  wind  came  whirling 
along  and  blew  it  over  the  brink. 

The  sheer  distance  to  the  bottom,  and  a  sudden  query 
flashing  across  her  mind,  dizzied  her.  Had  they  discovered 
that  cavern  ?  Was  it  there  that  the  old  man  was  leading  her  ? 
Up  till  now  she  had  been  "game — "  but  to  stay  in  that 
awful  place  with  those  evil  men — that  would  be  beyond  her 
strength.  Almost  she  was  tempted  to  follow  the  dancing  rib 
bon  which  fluttered  like  a  gorgeous  butterfly  above  the  veil  of 
the  cascade,  until,  caught  in  the  white  meshes,  it  vanished. 

They  reached  the  sea-wall  and  the  beginning  of  the  perilous 
path.  She  was  desperate. 

"Old  Man-whatever-is-your-name,  I  won't  go  a  step 
farther." 

"All  right,  Miss,  if  you  think  those  rocks  down  there 
would  make  a  nice  soft  bed  for  your  pretty  flesh." 

He  spat  down  into  the  gorge,  then  grasping  her  arm  with 
one  hand,  with  the  other  forced  her  head  over  the  edge 
until  she  stared  down  into  the  cauldron  seething  around  the 
rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 

"Take  a  good  squint,  sissy.  It's  a  nice  little  drop,  ain't  it 
now?" 


364  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

She  writhed  back  from  his  grasp,  glanced  around  for  help 
that  was  nowhere  near,  and  saw  the  North  Star  again.  The 
sight  of  the  buoyant  ship  somehow  steadied  her.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  Ben  and  Cap'n  Harve  would  come.  She  would 
wait  and  pray. 

The  old  man  snarled  out  something,  and  so,  with  fingers 
clutching  at  crevices  in  the  sea-wall,  and  listing  against  its 
sides  all  the  way  to  maintain  her  balance  against  the 
threatening  winds,  she  essayed  the  perilous  path  once 
more. 

She  closed  her  eyes  when  she  stepped  over  the  mound  in 
the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  still  she  did  not  advance  far  into 
its  darkness,  but  sat  near  the  opening  where  she  could  see 
that  circle  of  blue,  the  only  thing  in  that  desolate  place  which 
told  of  hope. 

The  old  man  crouched  down  nearby,  chewing  ferociously 
and  exercising  his  marksmanship  on  the  vaulted  walls.  Now 
the  skeleton  seemed  to  delight  his  ghoulish  fancy,  and  he 
began  a  ribald  conversation  with  the  old  freebooter  of  long 
ago,  whose  sins  could  not  have  been  redder  or  more  numerous 
than  his  own.  They  were  kindred  souls;  if  the  theory  of 
reincarnation  were  only  true,  he  might  have  been  addressing 
the  remains  of  his  former  self. 

"Have  a  swig,  my  hearty,"  he  hailed  his  new  comrade, 
taking  the  skull  in  his  hand  and  forcing  the  flask  between  the 
rows  of  teeth,  after  applying  it  to  his  own. 

"G —  blast  me  hide  if  ye  ain't  a  good  mate,  ye  grinning 

deathshead !    Ye  ain't  no  kill- joy  nuther,  but  a  cheery . 

Many's  the  cup  o'  good  wine  ye've  swallered,  and  blood  i'  the 


ON  THE  TRAIL  AGAIN  365 

bargain,  I'll  warrant.  Come  wet  your  whistle  again.  Here's 
happy  days!" 

With  a  deep  draught  he  pledged  the  toast. 

"And  here's  wishin'  ye  luck  in  yer  little  game  with  the 
Devil  tonight." 

Stoppering  the  flask,  he  leered  at  the  girl. 

"There's  a  pretty  bridegroom  for  ye,  my  gal,"  then  ad 
dressing  again  the  thing  in  his  hand,  "How'd  ye  like  to  be 
spliced  to  this  lass,  me  lad  ?" 

Crouching,  she  retreated  toward  the  inner  chamber.  Awful 
as  it  was,  it  could  hold  no  worse  terrors  than  that  evil  old 
man  with  the  flask  and  the  skull.  But  he  followed,  con 
tinuing  his  ghastly  soliloquy. 

"What  right  good  bedfellows  yu'd  make.  Her  with  her 
red  cheeks  and  ye  with  yer  old  yaller  bones." 

The  ballast  of  whisky  suddenly  shifted  in  his  wicked  old 
brain  and  his  mirth  changed  to  anger  at  her. 

"Come,  you  close-mouthed  jade,  swing  yer  clapper.  Yur 
sour-faced  sweetheart  on  the  ship  below  would  only  beat  ye, 
and  the  Chesterfield  Kid's  only  a  quarter  o'  a  man.  Jilt  'em 
both,  I  say." 

He  thrust  the  jowl  nearer  her  face. 

"Now  here's  the  proper  bridegroom  for  ye.  Won't  never 
lay  a  finger  on  ye.  Just  give  ye  them  soul-kisses  ye  read 
about,  warm  enough  to  yer  way  o'  thinkin'? 

"Come,  a  good  kiss  for  the  handsum  bridegroom." 

Again  he  lifted  the  skull  towards  her  face.  The  grinning 
thing  was  within  an  inch  of  her  blanching  lips.  A  scream  rent 
the  air,  and  she  sank  unconscious  on  the  floor  of  the  cavern. 


366  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

And  then  there  was  a  long  tremor  as  if  the  whole  island 
sighed  to  its  very  depths,  followed  by  a  more  violent  spasm. 
The  floor  of  the  cavern  shook.  Fragments  fell  from  the 
roof,  one  crimsoning  the  temple  of  the  prostrate  girl,  and 
the  great  birds  of  the  night,  startled  from  their  brooding,  flew 
from  the  dark  recesses  with  weird  and  horrible  cries. 

The  tremor  subsided,  but  the  old  wretch  dropped  the 
skull  and  sank  on  the  floor,  praying  in  rabid  fear  to  some 
unseen  power — he  knew  not  on  whom  to  call. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
A  TRICK  OF  FATE 

ALL  on  the  island  felt  those  tremors, — the  frightened  thieves 
on  guard  in  the  camp  and  those  who  had  departed  north 
ward  on  their  mysterious  mission,  Larone  on  his  solitary 
search  in  the  heart  of  the  island,  and  the  three  women  and 
the  sailors  on  the  North  Star  and  the  Alice. 

Like  the  swell  of  the  flood-tide  in  the  full  o'  the  moon, 
only  with  far  greater  violence  and  swiftness,  the  waters  of 
Rainbow  Bay  were  sucked  from  the  coral  lips  of  the  strand 
full  forty  feet,  racing  back  again  to  forty  more  above  high 
water  mark,  until  they  laved  the  trees  of  the  grove  around 
the  hut.  Three  times  they  rose  and  ebbed,  reaching  their 
climax  at  the  second  rumble,  while  the  yards  of  the 
ship  danced  merrily,  and  the  helmsman  worked  frantically  at 
the  wheel. 

"It's  a  young  tidal  wave,  sir,"  cried  Benson,  for  they  had 
returned  to  the  ship,  for  reinforcements. 

"Yes,  and  worse  to  follow,  I'm  afraid,"  replied  the  Captain. 
He  scanned  the  rising  terraces  with  his  glass — no  sight  of 
Ben  and  the  searching  party.  "Rayer,"  he  hailed  the  mate, 
"arm  Crow,  Slathers,  and  Yorke.  I'll  head  the  second  party 
myself.  We've  no  time  to  lose." 

367 


368  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"What's  that,  sir,  by  that  clump  o'  cocoas — that  bit  o* 
rag?" 

The  captain  raised  his  glasses  again.  A  handkerchief, 
knotted  on  a  stick,  was  wigwagging  from  the  shore. 

"None  o'  my  men.  It's  the  leader  of  the  blackguards. 
The  rogues  are  asking  for  a  parley.  Man  the  longboat !" 

The  gambler  did  not  trust  his  own  precious  person  to  the 
sailors,  and  when  they  reached  the  shore  they  found  only 
the  handkerchief  and  the  stick,  and  in  its  prongs  a  missive, 
which  the  captain  hastily  read. 

"Are  you  willing  to  exchange  the  yacht  for  the  girl?  If 
so,  anchor  the  Alice  in  South  Bay  and  beach  the  tender  this 
P.M. 

I  f  you  agree  to  this,  answer  here 

(signing  your  name).    Will  you  also  grant  us  safe  conduct, 
agreeing  not  to  attack  ? 

(signed)  Captain  of  the  Alice." 

"We  can't  risk  any  thing  on  her  account,  Benson.  I'll 
sign." 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  reflected  for  a  moment,  then  on 
the  note  he  wrote 

"We  will  beach  the  tender  here.  Produce  the  girl  at  four 

o'clock  unharmed  or "  — the  dash  was  more  eloquent 

than  any  threat.  At  the  bottom  he  signed  his  name. 

They  rowed  back  to  the  yacht,  and,  when  a  furlong  off 
shore,  saw  the  two  figures  by  the  white  flag  waving  assent  to 
the  conditions. 


A  TRICK  OF  FATE  369 

Like  all  hardened  rascals  who  live  but  for  the  lust  of  the 
moment,  Old  Man  Veldmann  had  a  gutta-percha  disposition, 
and  so,  on  the  swift  rebound,  he  quite  forgot  the  warnings 
after  the  rumblings  ceased.  Of  all  that  good  gold  was  he 
thinking,  and  he  chuckled  at  a  little  idea  just  hatched  under 
the  eaves  of  his  grizzled  old  thatch. 

"You  be good  and  stay  here,  girl,"  he  said  to  Sally 

who  had  recovered  from  her  swoon.    "I'll  be  back  in  a  shake 
of  a  lamb's  tail." 

To  make  sure  of  her  obedience,  he  bound  her  hands  and 
feet,  then  started  back  along  the  sea-wall. 

Larone,  from  an  eyrie  on  Cone  mountain,  was  watching 
the  manoeuvres  on  the  shore  of  Rainbow  Bay  when  he  saw 
the  bow-legged,  bent  old  figure  walk  along  the  gorge  and 
then  pass  over  the  divide  to  the  southern  slope. 

"It  is  the  cavern,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  hurried  after 
the  retreating  figure,  only  to  lose  sight  of  it  in  the  forest. 

So  he  turned  to  the  house  on  the  mountain,  passed  through 
the  doorway  and  the  wide  hall,  searched  for  a  candle, 
descended  to  the  cellar,  lifted  a  trap-door,  and  lighting  the 
wax,  went  down  another  flight  of  stone-steps  into  a  gloomy 
dungeon. 

Meanwhile  the  old  figure  toiled  on  through  the  woods,  still 
chuckling  to  himself  over  his  plan,  until  he  reached  the  glen, 
to  find  only  "the  Swede"  still  on  guard,  Pete  having  gone  on 
some  errand  to  the  shore. 

Cunningly  the  old  rascal  addressed  the  pink-complexioned 
one. 

"Say,  Pink,  that's  a  hell  uv  a  lot  of  gold." 


370  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  dull  eyes  of  the  Swede  gleamed  with  the  glint  of  the 
treasure  itself. 

"Ay,  she  make  us  all  rich  for  life." 

"Now,  Swedie,  don't  get  no  such  notion  in  your thick 

head,  the  chief's  as  glib  with  promisin'  as  a  wench  that's 
atter  yer  roll." 

"Yu  tank  he  go  back  on  us — double  cross  us,  you  say?" 

"Well,  now  I  wouldn't  swear  as  to  that.  But  what's  to 
prevent  him?  Ye  can't  reef  canvas  after  the  ship's  sunk. 
Now  I've  a  little  idee,  an'  it's  a good  one." 

Looking  around  cautiously  to  see  that  the  place  was  quite 
as  solitary  as  it  seemed,  the  plotter  proceeded  to  drill  the 
"little  idee"  into  the  tow  head.  It  seemed  to  register,  and 
soon  these  two  untied  the  clanking  chains,  and  began  a  queer 
series  of  manoeuvres  of  their  own  with  the  chest,  the 
sacks,  and  stones. 


And  all  the  while  the  girl  sat  alone  in  the  deserted  cavern 
above  the  sea. 

"I  must  not  give  up,  I  must  not  give  up,"  she  repeated 
over  and  over  and  over  to  herself.  How  her  bones  ached 
from  the  contact  with  the  rocky  floor ! 

It  was  all  so  still  up  here.  Not  even  the  roar  of  the 
breakers  below  ascended  to  this  height;  there  was  only  the 
shriek  of  some  gull,  or  the  moan  of  the  wind  wandering 
through  the  hollow  chambers,  as  lonely  and  forlorn  as  the 
captive  maiden.  She  looked  back  into  the  darkness.  It  was 
impenetrable,  not  even  relieved  by  flickering  shadows  now. 


A  TRICK  OF  FATE  371 

For  company  she  had  only  the  skull  at  her  feet.  She 
almost  screamed  as  she  glanced  at  the  eyeless  sockets,  but 
courageously  she  stifled  the  cry  and  edged  away  from  it, 
as  best  her  body  could,  towards  that  irregular  circle  of  blue. 
She  must  keep  her  eyes  on  that. 

Why  didn't  they  come !  Where  was  Ben !  Would  the  old 
man  return  after  all,  or  was  that  only  a  lie.  Almost  she 
hoped  that  he  wouldn't,  that  she  could  roll  over  the  brink 
into  the  white  foam.  There  would  be  rest  there  for  a  child 
of  the  sea. 

But  youth  ran  strongly  in  the  slender  body,  so  she  waited 
and  prayed,  and  prayed  and  waited,  the  long  morning 
through. 

Sometimes  for  relief,  on  that  circle  of  sky  as  on  a  heavenly 
screen  she  tried  to  picture  other  places  and  things,  to 
visualize  old  memories, — the  trees,  the  orchards,  and  flowers, 
of  her  old  home;  the  cheerful  hustle  of  Preble  Square;  the 
old  neighbours ;  the  spick  and  span  lighthouse,  eternally 
guarding  the  deep ;  and  Ben,  telling  the  old,  old  story  under 
the  moon. 

And  then,  in  her  fancies  she  saw  the  face  of  the  stranger, 
the  eyes,  now  with  that  quizzical  expression  as  he  read  her 
through  and  through,  now  with  the  brave,  pathetic  look  that 
went  straight  to  her  heart.  Again  she  wondered.  If  his 
home  had  been  in  Salthaven,  instead  of  on  some  strange 
shore — just  where  it  was  he  had  never  told  her — perhaps 
everywhere — but  if  it  had  been — why  then — but,  no,  that 
could  never  be.  Honest,  blue-eyed  Ben  was  hers,  her  boy. 
But  why  didn't  he  come! 


372  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Overcome  by  fatigue,  her  head  drooped  against  the  wall 
of  the  cavern,  and  she  slept —  — .  When  she  awoke  it  was 
to  look  at  the  impenetrable  darkness  behind  her.  A  night 
mare?  Where  was  she?  Then,  with  a  dull  feeling  of  de 
spair,  she  realized  her  plight  again.  Her  shoulders  and  neck 
were  shot  through  and  through  with  agonizing  pains,  and 
she  couldn't  help  sobbing — long,  racking  sobs. 

At  last  she  grew  quiet.  What  time  was  it  ?  She  looked  at 
the  patch  of  sunlight  that  splashed  through  the  opening. 
By  its  angle,  sharply  cut  from  the  shadow,  she  confusedly 
reckoned  that  it  must  be  considerably  past  noon. 

She  looked  down  at  her  feet,  and  discovered  that  the  knot 
so  carelessly  tied  by  the  old  man  in  his  absorption  over 
"that  little  idee,"  had  become  loose  while  she  struggled  in 
her  slumbers.  There  was  sufficient  leeway  to  work  the  toe 
of  one  slipper  against  the  heel  of  the  other.  It  came  off,  the 
other  followed,  and  bending  over,  with  her  bound  hands  she 
pushed  the  rope  down  over  her  slender  ankles  and  feet.  The 
knot  on  her  hands  was  secure.  She  rose  and  stretched  her 
self,  trying  to  relieve  the  ache  a  little,  and  walked  towards 
the  sea. 

What  was  that  noise?  It  sounded  like  voices — out  there 
on  the  sea-wall.  They  were  coming!  Or  was  it  the  sound 
of  the  gulls — the  mocking  wind? 

They  were  human  voices,  calling  to  each  other  as  their 
owners  crept  along  the  path  above  the  sea. 

More  fearful  of  them  than  the  darkness  within,  she  turned 
and  hurried  into  the  cavern,  circled  the  elbow,  and  threaded 
the  gloom,  feeling  her  way  against  the  cold  walls.  Re- 


A  TRICK  OF  FATE  373 

membering  vividly  the  other  mound  near  the  stone  chart, 
she  tried  to  avoid  it,  and  so  ran  plumb  against  the  wall  at 
the  end. 

Shaking  in  every  nerve,  she  sank  on  the  floor,  her  hand 
falling  on  the  flat  tablet  of  the  chart. 

As  her  fingers  groped  along  its  surface,  she  felt  it  move. 
The  earth  was  trembling  again.  Nature,  as  well  as  humanity, 
was  arrayed  against  her.  But  the  rest  of  the  place  was  silent, 
motionless.  Only  the  stone,  unevenly  balanced,  rocked  a 
little,  then  rose  again,  as  if  struggling  shoulders  below  were 
trying  to  force  it  upward.  What  arms  could  there  be  there 
in  the  bowels  of  the  mountain. 

She  rose  and  recoiled.  She  had  reached  the  ultimate  depths 
of  terror.  Accustomed  now  to  the  darkness,  her  fascinated 
gaze  was  bent  on  that  stone.  One  inch  it  rose,  then  fell  back 
again,  gained  two,  and  so  was  forced  up  slowly,  higher  and 
higher. 

Those  voices  sounded  louder,  shouting  through  the  cavern. 

Should  she  stay  here  to  face  this  unknown  terror,  or  flee  to 
the  known?  They  echoed  again — those  voices  behind  her, 
and  one  had  the  sharp  ring  of  the  tall  man's  voice. 

"Here  are  her  slippers." 

Then  the  angry  command: 

"Come  out  of  there." 

And  still  that  stone  was  rising  inch  by  inch.  Now,  even  in 
the  darkness,  she  could  see  the  gleam  of  a  white  arm,  but 
the  owner  of  it  had  uttered  no  sound. 

Then,  as  if  some  mighty  force  were  behind  it,  the  stone 
fell  back  crashing  against  the  walls,  waking  a  thousand  new 


374  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

voices  of  the  cavern.  She  did  not  faint,  but  strangely  she 
felt  that  now  she  knew  what  the  end,  what  Death,  must 
he  like. 

The  human  voices  were  coming  nearer,  and  around  the 
elbow,  the  flickering  flame  of  a  torch  illumined  the  walls 
of  the  curving  passage  with  a  ghostly  light. 

A  shadowy  form  leaped  up  from  the  hole,  uncovered  by 
the  stone  when  it  fell.  The  form  was  at  her  side.  It,  too, 
had  a  voice,  and  her  heart  started  beating  again,  as  she  heard 
the  musical  accent. 

"You  are  safe — thank  God!" 

"Quick,  they  are  coming!"  She  managed  to  gasp  out  the 
whisper. 

He  seized  her  around  the  waist. 

"Look  out,  there  are  steps  there,"  and  he  drew  her  down 
into  the  dark  passage,  infinitely  more  cheerful  than  the  gloom 
above,  for  he  was  with  her,  and,  far  away,  flickered  a  little 
light,  a  taper  set  in  its  own  wax,  in  a  stone  orifice. 

Leaping  up  the  steps  again,  with  surprising  strength  the 
Frenchman  pulled  the  tablet  of  stone  over  the  opening  into 
place  again.  They  paused,  listening  to  the  muffled  footsteps 
and  the  raging  voice  of  the  gambler. 

"Gone  by  !     We're  done  for." 

Through  the  dark  passage,  one  of  Nature's  natural  tunnels 
extended  by  the  old  owners  of  the  place,  he  guided  her 
towards  the  little  light. 

As  they  went,  the  rumblings  sounded  again,  faint  and 
far  away. 

"The  Sleeping  Giant  is  turning  over  in  his  dreams.     But 


A  TRICK  OF  FATE  375 

he's  sure  to  wake  at  any  moment.  You  must  tell  your 
guardian  to  sail  away,  this  very  day." 

She  did  not  hear  him,  for  she  had  swooned  again,  and  he 
had  to  bear  her  and  the  light  too,  crouching  under  the  low 
walls,  to  the  dungeon,  deep  under  the  foundations  of  the 
house.  They  emerged  into  the  sub-cellar,  then,  depositing  his 
precious  burden,  he  raised  the  trap-door,  picked  up  the  girl 
again,  bore  her  up  three  flights,  and  placed  her  tenderly  on  the 
bed  where  the  little  exquisite  old  lady  had  lain  with  the 
flowers. 

For  a  few  long  heart-beats  he  gazed  on  her  face  as  she 
lay  so  still,  knowing  that  he  would  never  hold  her  in  his  arms 
again,  and  striving  to  impress  the  pure  features  forever  in 
his  memory. 

As  she  stirred,  a  tiny  object  dropped  to  the  floor.  He 
picked  it  up  and  smiled.  It  was  so  typically  American, — 
the  little  pennant-shaped  pin  of  sterling  silver  and  cheap 
enamel.  The  significance  of  the  letters  S.  H.  S.  he  could 
not  read,  but  he  slipped  it  in  his  pocket. 

It  was  a  fair  exchange  for  a  chest  of  gold. 

Then  he  bent  over  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead — once, 
very  gently,  and  finding  that  her  eyes  did  not  open,  hurried 
down  the  stairway  for  water  from  the  spring. 

And  the  girl  knew  that  he  had  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
THE   CURSE   OF   THE   GOLD 

THEY  journeyed  over  the  divide  as  fast  as  the  tired  girl 
could  travel,  but  when  they  reached  the  bridge  over  the  gorge, 
the  sun  had  set.  In  the  west  two  scarfs,  one  of  pink  and 
one  of  saffron,  floated  away  after  his  passing,  and  the  gold 
seemed  to  ripple  up  from  the  underworld,  like  the  reflection 
of  the  gleaming  treasure  under  the  dark  lid. 

But  above  them  all  was  black.  The  smoke  over  Cone 
Monatehi,  looming  up  like  a  vast  umbrella,  covered  half  of 
the  island. 

She  pointed  at  the  harbour. 

"See  those  lights !" 

Upon  the  tips  of  the  yards,  and  topmasts,  all  over  the  ship, 
burned  little  lights  like  flickering  souls. 

"I  never  saw  the  sun  do  that  before." 

"It  is  not  the  sun,  my  dear  Mademoiselle.  It  is  St.  Elmo's 
Fire,  and  it  always  comes,  like  the  moons,  before  the  moun 
tain  does  its  worst.  The  people  of  the  Caribbees  say  they 
are  tapers  of  the  sea — a  wake  for  those  that  will  be  lost.  And 
look,  Mademoiselle,  there  are  the  lost  souls  themselves,  above 
the  mountain." 

And  there  they  were,  the  seven  moons,  swimming  through 

376 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  GOLD  377 

the  twilight  so  palely  that  one  had  to  look  twice  to  discern 
them. 

The  air  was  very  calm  now  and  pregnant  with  strange, 
quivering  thrills,  as  if  surcharged  with  electricity.  She 
thought  it  was  her  own  excited  nerves,  the  feeling  of  dread 
she  had  at  that  farewell  so  soon  to  come — and  perhaps  the 
memory  of  that  kiss,  which  she  had  let  him  give  her,  just  after 
she  drifted  back  from  the  yawning  pit  of  unconsciousness  and 
before  she  opened  her  eyes  entirely.  It  was  one  of  the  few 
girlish  deceits  of  her  blameless,  straight-forward  life — but 
she  was  glad,  glad  for  that  kiss.  There  was  no  harm  in 
it,  and  somehow  she  wanted  that  to  remember. 

The  real  danger  that  threatened  she  realized  now,  still,  she 
hated  to  hasten  that  last  journey  to  its  end,  but  he  urged  her 
forward. 

They  had  reached  the  bridge  above  the  waterfall,  and  he 
bade  her  go  over  first,  as  the  old  cables  could  not  support 
their  united  weight.  On  the  other  side  she  watched,  hands 
at  her  throat,  it  swayed  so,  as  he  crossed.  Safe  on  the  other 
side,  he  turned,  and  looked  back  for  signs  of  pursuers.  As 
he  did  so,  he  bent  forward,  and  his  hand  lowered  to  his  hip. 
Her  eyes  followed  his  and  saw  the  figure  crouching  on  the 
trail,  just  fifty  yards  from  the  gorge. 

The  old  man  had  returned  at  last. 

The  Frenchman  thrust  her  behind  a  tree,  and  waited  at 
the  northern  end  of  the  bridge  as  the  figure  stepped  upon 
it.  The  flask  had  perhaps  made  his  footing  insecure,  and 
the  frail  old  structure  rocked  from  side  to  side  under  the 
stocky  figure.  He  reached  the  middle.  Even  above  the 


37.8  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

cascade's  thunder,  she  could  hear  the  curses  he  shrieked  at 
them  derisively  echoed  back  by  gorge  and  mountain. 

Then  suddenly,  so  quickly  it  happened  she  never  after 
wards  could  tell  just  how,  the  bridge  sagged  in  the  middle; 
one  rotting  cable  parted.  The  howling  wretch  clutched  for 
the  hand-rail.  The  bridge  buckled,  the  sections  swung  to  the 
sides  of  the  gorge,  and  the  body  plunged  head  downward.  It 
was  horrible  and  yet  grotesque,  the  bow-legs  sprawling  in 
the  air,  the  jacket  flopping  over  the  head  like  a  sack.  From 
its  lining  and  pockets  dropped  whirling,  round,  shiny  things. 

So,  in  a  shower  of  gold,  the  old  sinner  plunged  to  his 
doom 

Fifty  yards  from  the  hut,  they  saw  flickers  of  the  fire,  and 
heard  the  voices  of  the  watchers. 

She  paused  in  the  shadows. 

"You  must  sail  with  us  tomorrow.  We  will  stop  at  the 
port  with  you  and  Linda. 

"And  now,  because  we  won't  have  much  chance — to  talk 
over  things  on  the  ship  again — I  want  to  thank  you  for  all 
you  have  done.  I  never  will  forget — never." 

Then  she  went  on,  a  little  more  lightly,  perhaps  with  a 
forced  blitheness,  though  he  could  not  see  the  moisture  gleam 
ing  in  her  eyes. 

"Sometime  you  must  come  and  visit  us — Ben  and  me. 
He's  a  fine  boy.  You'll  like  him  when  you  come  to  know 
him." 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  many  men  and  I  know  that  he  will 
be  true."  And  the  girl  remembering  her  sweetheart's 
unchivalrous  treatment  of  the  man  before  her,  was  touched. 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  GOLD      379 

And  she  was  glad  that  it  was  dark  all  about  them,  and 
he  could  not  see  the  tremor  of  her  lips  when  he  said : 

"All  the  happiness  in  the  world — and  in  Heaven — my 
dear  lady,  I  wish  for  you.  I  do  not  pray  as  often  as  a  good 
Catholic  should,  but  I  will  pray  for  that — very  often." 

Then  they  went  to  the  fire  and  the  waiting  sailors  of 
the  North  Star. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
ALL  HANDS  AHOY! 

ONCE  more  the  ship's  bells  sounded  musically  over  the 
waters.  The  moon  came  up,  gleaming  wanly  like  a  pale 
yellow  moth  through  the  clouds  of  smoke  pouring  from  the 
inverted  funnel  of  the  mountain.  The  whirling  eddies  of 
these  black  columns,  the  motion  of  the  moon,  which 
appeared  to  float  against  their  dark  tides,  and — to  those  that 
could  see  them — her  six  white  shadows,  were  the  only 
evidences  that  Nature  was  not  slumbering.  All  else  was 
motionless.  No  silver  lip  of  wavelet  kissed  the  cutwater 
of  the  ship ;  her  deck  did  not  heave  — it  was  quite  as  steady 
as  when,  the  voyage  ended,  she  would  rest  in  drydock. 

Calm  was  the  air.  The  depth  and  fulness  of  its  silence 
presaged  many  things,  perhaps  a  quiet  gathering  of  all  her 
forces  for  some  fatal  spring. 

Again  those  strange  tingles  titillated  through  the  whole  of 
Sally's  body.  So  surcharged  was  the  atmosphere  that  when 
she  stretched  her  hand  out,  it  was  as  if  it  touched  some 
invisible  steel,  completing  the  circuit  of  a  ghostly  bat 
tery. 

She  looked  aloft.     The   southern  half   of   the  heavens 
with  its  smoke  and  lost  moon  souls   was  like  the  fouled  and 

380 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  381 

corrupted  ending  of  a  once  bright  life;  the  north  with  its 
clear,  untainted  purple  and  pure-shining  stars — the  virgin 
years  before  the  fall. 

And  over  her  head  ever  trembled  and  vanished,  trembled 
and  vanished,  the  little  lights  on  the  motionless  topmasts  and 
yards. 

The  strangely  subdued  girl  and  her  repentant  lover  paced 
the  deck.  They  tried  to  overcome  the  oppression  of  air,  and 
sea,  and  mood,  which  had  held  them  mute  and  uneasy  in  the 
dog  watches.  At  last  they  ventured  a  few  sentences  of 
conversation. 

"I  thought  I'd  lost  you  for  keeps,  Sally." 

"You  came  near  it.  You  would  have,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
him." 

"And  to  think  I  suspected  him  of  yellowness.  I  was  a 
fool." 

"Not  quite  that,  dear.    Just  a  foolish  boy." 

"I  deserve  worse  names  than  that." 

"We'll  forget  them  now,  Benny  boy.  But  don't  you  think 
you  ought  to  say  something  to  him — to  make  up." 

"You  bet  I  ought.  I'd  eat  humble  pie  now,  if  it  had  an 
assafcetida  crust  and  a  castor-oil  filling." 

Then  he  added  thoughtfully : 

"He  may  be  a  frog-eater,  but  he's  a  real  man." 

This  phrasing  she  did  not  quite  like,  so  she  returned  very 
slowly : — 

"Perhaps,  if  we  tried  hard,  we  could  forgive  the  diet.  And 
as  you  say,  he — is — a — real — man." 

The  accompanying  smile  was  strangely  made  up  of  irony 


382  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

and  wistfulness,  neither  of  which  ingredients  the  boy  dis 
cerned,  so  absorbed  was  he  in  the  task  of  apology,  always  a 
hard  one  for  self-conscious  youth. 

Larone  and  the  captain  he  found  by  the  wheel,  deep  in 
consultation,  and  glancing  now  and  then  at  that  vast  umbrella 
of  smoke  aloft,  rotating  slowly  now,  and  weirdly  muffling 
the  moon. 

Haltingly  but  with  a  winning  honesty,  the  boy  asked 
forgiveness.  The  other,  in  his  graceful  way,  accepted  the 
apology,  accenting  the  gesture  whimsically  with  that  old 
quizzical  smile  of  his. 

"Think  nothing  of  that,  Monsieur.  It  was  natural.  Any 
one  would  have  felt  the  same  way." 

Looking  out  at  sea,  he  went  on  slowly,  and  with  a  little 
grip  and  tenseness  in  each  tone  and  word : 

"I  know  you  will  be  good  to  her.     That  is  all  I  ask." 

He  turned  then  and  faced  him  fully. 

"You  can  sail  the  seven  seas,  but  you'll  never  find  a  lovelier 
woman  if  you  voyage  as  long  as  the  Flying  Dutchman  him 
self — but  what  were  you  asking,  Captain?" 

"What  are  the  risks,  my  friend  ?"  the  skipper  repeated . 

"I  think  we  are  safe  for  a  few  days.  All  the  signs  would 
point  to  that,  and  I  have  sailed  not  only  the  Caribbees  but  in 
many  other  places  where  surly  fellows  like  the  giant  up 
there,  sleep  for  a  while,  wake  for  a  quiet  smoke,  turn  over 
again,  and  then  at  last  when  the  devil's  nightmare  is  on  them 
rise  and  stalk  down  the  mountain,  destroying  whole  cities  and 
islands  as  fair  as  this.  But — with  the  women  I  would  not 
risk  an  hour." 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  383 

With  his  charred  pipe  the  captain  reproduced  in  miniature 
the  smoking  mountain,  before  he  replied. 

"It's  a  snug  little  fortune  for  Sally  to  lose.  Besides,  the 
crew's  seen  the  glint  o'  that  gold  and  it's  got  'em  like  the 
smile  of  the  light  o'  loves  when  the  battleships  come  to  port. 
Haven't  we  leeway  enough  to  anchor  off  the  cape  in  the 
morning,  recover  the  chest,  bag  the  rascals  in  the  bargain, 
then  sail  in  the  afternoon?" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"As  I  said.  Monsieur  Captain,  there  may  be  time  but  with 
the  women ." 

The  gesture  of  his  hands  expressively  finished  the  warning. 
More  than  ever  the  heavy-bowled  pipe  looked  like  the 
mountain  above,  as  the  captain  puffed  and  pondered. 

"This  island  was  never  on  any  chart.  There's  no  lead 
can  sound  its  waters,  I  would  swear,  no  barometer  to  tell 
its  weather.  All  we  can  do  is  to  trust  to  old  witch  signs. 
Let's  leave  it  to  the  girl." 

At  his  hail  she  came  slowly  along  the  deck,  drooping  a 
little  and  supporting  herself  by  the  rail.  However,  she  rallied 
her  spirits  and  made  her  choice. 

"I'll  never  touch  the  stuff  after  what  I've  seen,  but  I 
can't  rob  the  others.  Let's  take  the  chance,  once,  in  the 
morning,  then,  whatever  happens,  sail  before  sundown." 

But  the  captain  felt  that  inasmuch  as  history  records 
isolated  instances  of  feminine  tacks  of  mind,  in  the  end,  for 
Ben's  sake  anyway,  she  might  take  her  allotment — besides, 
he  knew  his  men,  so  he  gave  his  orders  for  the  next  watch, 
and  went  below. 


384  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

The  little  fires  which  for  some  time  had  been  burning 
on  the  spars  above  their  heads  steadily,  and  with  a  sizzle  like 
arclights  when  the  protecting  bulbs  are  broken,  went  out 
suddenly  as  if  switched  off  by  some  unseen  hand,  then  up 
again.  Three  times  the  uncanny  performance  was  repeated. 

"Like  the  last  call  for  drinks  in  one  o'  them  fancy  grog 
shops  like  Yaller  Petticoat  over  there  makes  her  livin'  in," 
growled  Benson  to  young  Beam.  "And  the  Devil's  both 
brewer  and  barkeep.  It's  his  claw  as  is  dousin'  them  lights." 

"Yes,  and  a  mixin'  the  last  drinks  for  one  o'  us,"  returned 
the  other. 

"Of  course — it's  fur  yerself,  Mister  Beam.  There  they  go 
again,  those  damned  lights.  Last  call!  What '11  ye  have?" 

"He's  not  axin'  me  what'll  I  have,  with  that  leaky  old  hulk 
Jerry  Benson  stranded  on  his  bar." 

"Stow  yer  gab,  ye  young  fool.  But  whomsoever  it  is,  here 
is  hopin'  he's  got  a  roll  to  pay  for  the  drinks.  It's  when  he's 
copped  it  hisself  ye've  got  to  look  out  for  the  Black  Bar- 
keep." 

So,  on  through  the  night  watches  the  stars  floated  out  of 
the  black  haze  to  the  south,  swam  for  a  little  while  in  the 
clear  purple  pool  to  the  north,  then  one  by  one  sank  below  the 
horizon. 

Long  after  midnight,  somewhere  about  seven  bells,  they 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  the  sea  began  to  swell  unbroken 
by  long  rollers,  just  one  even  surface,  grey  in  the  false  dawn, 
and  rising  like  water  in  a  glass  when  some  displacing  object 
is  gently  dropped  into  it. 

It  subsided,  rose  and  fell  again  as  if  under  the  influence 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  385 

of  a  series  of  intermittent  tides,  the  anchor  chains  creaking 
ominously  through  the  holes,  as  the  ship  was  buoyed  upward 
on  the  waters. 

Finally,  all  was  still  again,  oppressively  still.  The  clear  sec 
tion  of  the  sky  to  west  and  north  did  not  turn  to  turquoise 
with  the  morning,  but  paled  to  an  anaemic  white.  From  the 
cone,  clouds  came  columning,  like  vast,  revolving,  powder- 
puffs  still  of  soft  texture,  but  fouled  by  swabbing  the  great 
chimneys  of  that  giant's  furnace  below.  In  between  their 
sooty  masses  floated  little  white  plumes  of  vapour,  all  en 
veloping  the  island  and  thinning  a  little  as  they  spread  over 
the  coast  waters. 

Through  these  fugitive  mists  the  sea  birds  wandered  on 
disconsolate  wing,  like  phantom  wraiths.  The  sun  came  up, 
not  jubilant,  and  golden,  and  glorious,  but  a  pale  oxblood 
wafer  behind  the  smoke  clouds,  like  the  celluloid  tiddlewinks 
Sally  remembered  in  her  parlour. 

Then  sounded  over  the  troubled  waters  the  old  command 
of  the  sea,  with  its  long  drawn  vowels  and  hoarse  musical 
tones. 

"Aa-11  ha-aands  !    Up  annchorr  a-ho-oy !" 

Through  the  shifting  fogs  it  sounded,  like  the  deep  sea- 
warning  of  some  brazen-throated  steamer  off  the  Banks  of 
Newfoundland. 

Already  the  sails  were  loosed,  the  capstan  creaked,  and 
through  hawser-holes  came  the  anchor  chains,  clanking. 

The  wheel  spun,  yards  were  braced,  and  sails  set,  and 
through  the  channel  between  the  Twin  Horn  Capes,  like  a 
ghostly  ship  of  the  night,  floated  the  North  Star. 

25 


386  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

"Better  give  up  the  chase,  Sally,"  said  the  Captain. 

"No,  let's  stick  till  noon,  then  sail,  homeward  bound,"  she 
replied. 

With  that,  the  smoke-avalanche  weakened  a  little,  and  under 
the  uplifted  dark  curtain,  as  they  anchored  off  the  Cape  of 
the  Solitary  Palm,  for  a  brief  hour  the  island  became  its  old 
living  green  self  again. 

From  the  deck  the  longboat  sank  to  the  waves.  Into 
it  tumbled  the  Captain  and  Ben,  Benson  and  Jack  Beam,  and 
with  six  sturdy  tars  as  oarsmen,  they  swung  through  the 
galloping  white-toothed  squadrons  of  breakers,  and  ran  her 
up  on  shore. 

But  even  as  they  vanished  into  the  thicket,  two  standing 
guard  by  the  boat,  the  dark  mists  descended,  the  sun  turning 
to  the  colour  of  coagulated  blood  again. 

During  the  eventful  day  of  her  captivity,  well  had  Sally 
kept  her  head,  and  she  had  a  natural  sense  of  location,  so 
her  directions  this  morning  had  been  fair  enough.  Following 
these,  the  searchers  headed  on  an  angle  through  the  woods 
for  South  Bay. 

But  so  dense  was  the  gloom  of  the  forest  under  the 
canopy  of  cloud,  so  intricate  the  tangle  of  roots  and  vines 
and  sharp  branches,  that  three  hours  of  cautious  scouting 
and  constant  reference  to  the  compass  passed  before  they 
discovered  the  first  sign. 

It  must  have  been  high  noon  when  Ben,  ahead  and  a  little 
to  the  right  of  the  rest,  saw  a  flame  flickering  between  the 
greenish  black  boles  that  buttressed  the  saucer-shaped  glen. 

They  deployed.    Over  the  rim  of  the  saucer  and  through 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  387 

the  soft  fern,  their  eight  round  steel  muzzles  pointed  into 
the  green  hollow.  It  was  very  still  and  lonely  save  for  the 
life  of  the  rosily-leaping  fire. 

In  the  far  corner,  against  a  trunk  a  rifle  rested,  by  its  side 
a  form  crouched — near  a  pile  of  strewn  boughs.  Following 
the  lines  of  the  figure  to  the  extended  arm,  they  saw  that  it 
was  caught  by  something  heavy  and  black — the  cover  of  the 
iron  chest. 

The  eight  muzzles  circled,  covering  the  figure. 

A  sharp  demand  for  surrender  rang  through  the  glen.  But 
the  sentry  was  quite  as  silent  as  that  other  one,  in  the  dawn 
by  the  drift-wood  log. 

Down  into  the  saucer  the  eight  clambered,  with  rifles  on 
the  alert  for  fear  of  treachery. 

Benson's  heavy  boot  kicked  the  thigh  of  the  prone  figure. 

"Dead,  stone  dead,"  he  said. 

Swollen  was  the  face,  the  mouth  twisted  in  its  last 
grimace  of  horror  and  agony.  The  fatuous,  light-blue  eyes 
held  more  of  expression  now  than  ever  they  had  in  life,  and 
the  stiff  tow  pompadour  seemed  to  bristle  still,  though  the  evil 
heart  had  passed  beyond  any  capacity  for  fear. 

They  glanced  at  the  chest.  The  heavy  cover  had  pinioned 
the  arm.  It  was  swollen  to  twice  its  size. 

"But  that  couldn't  have  killed  him,"  said  Ben. 

"No,  there's  the  assassin's  mark." 

The  captain  pointed  to  two  tiny  sharp  holes  in  the  blue- 
black  corruption  of  the  arm. 

From  under  the  lid,  they  heard  a  dull  clink  of  some  dis- 


388  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

turbed  pieces,  then  saw  a  long  wriggling  thing  coil  out  of 
the  chest  and  disappear  into  the  green. 

Still  on  the  tree  hung  its  stiffened  mate,  nailed  there  by 
MacAllister's  knife. 

"It  even  breeds  serpents,  that  gold,"  whispered  Benson, 
shuddering  fearsomely.  "It's  accursed,  I  can't  touch  it,  sir." 

"Don't  be  an  old  woman,  Benson.    Come,  up  with  it,  men  !" 

They  lowered  the  lid,  and  swung  it  by  the  poles  on  four 
pairs  of  shoulders,  with  difficulty  climbed  out  of  the  saucer, 
and  zigzagged  on  their  way  through  the  serried  phalanxes  of 
trees,  towards  the  shore. 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  pocket  compass,  they  never  would 
have  made  it  so  quickly.  There  was  need  for  haste,  for  as 
they  went,  long,  far-away,  rumbles  sounded,  leagues  below 
where  they  were  standing,  like  the  echoes  of  heavy  artillery 
firing  in  the  deep  quarries  and  caverns  of  the  underworld. 

Over  and  over  they  sounded,  gathering  force  as  the  Plu 
tonian  batteries  answered  each  other,  and  the  whole  earth 
recoiled  with  each  subterranean  salvo. 

There  was  a  rushing  above,  whipping  the  massed  treetops 
like  the  surface  of  a  lake  in  a  sudden  gale,  and  the  trunks 
danced  before  the  astonished  sailors'  eyes  like  the  jumbled 
trees  of  a  drunken  man's  dreams.  Then,  following  each 
salvo,  fell  a  death-like  silence  like  the  little  respites  which 
Nature  brings,  between  the  throes,  to  a  woman  in  travail. 

They  had  dropped  the  chest,  but  finally  the  rumblings 
ceased  altogether.  In  the  absolute  silence  now  holding  the 
forest,  they  could  hear  the  swish  of  the  surges  rushing  on 
shore,  and  picking  up  the  chest,  they  hurried  on  again. 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  389 

Through  the  glass  from  the  deck,  Sally's  eyes  followed  the 
figures  as  they  left  behind  them  the  green-black  density  of 
the  woods,  and  bore  that  coffin-shaped  thing  on  their  shoul 
ders,  over  the  strip  of  sand,  whose  lively  pink  flush  the  gloom 
of  the  day  had  turned  now  to  a  bleak  white  bordering  a  leaden 
sea. 

Into  the  rolling  teeth  of  the  breakers,  head  on  they  drove 
the  boat,  her  gunwales  bristling  with  oars.  Threateningly  she 
pitched  and  tossed,  the  weight  of  the  chest  almost  dragging 
the  stern  under.  But  at  last  they  gained  the  side  of  the 
North  Star. 

Chest  and  boat  were  hoisted  over  the  rail;  the  anchor 
came  up ;  the  ship  heeled  to  the  breeze,  and  pointed  north. 

"Did  you  see  any  of  the  thieves?"  Sally's  voice  called  above 
the  roar  of  the  wind. 

"Nary  a  one  alive,"  the  bosun  replied. 

"Or  dead  ?" 

"One  by  the  chest." 

"That  was?" 

"The  tow-headed  one  with  the  complexion  of  a  gal  and  the 
heart  of  a  hell-hound." 

"The  others'll  escape  in  the  yacht." 

"No  fear  o'  that,  though  there's  no  watch  aboard  her.  The 
bay's  full  of  long  grey  revenue  cutters  with  fins  and  teeth, 
and  though  I  don't  know  much  about  the  ways  o'  engines,  I'd 
swear  they  won't  run  without  these." 

In  his  brawny  fists  he  clinked  the  round,  threaded  metal 
things  he  had  just  taken  from  his  pocket. 

"Old  Joe ;  the  sailor  in  South  Bay ;  the  ornery  old  man ;  and 


390  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

the  wicked  Swede — one,  two,  three,  four" — he  slowly  count 
ed.  "Yes,  that's  the  devil's  toll  of  that  cursed  gold  already." 

Up  and  down  in  his  hands,  he  shook  the  cubes  of  iron  and 
steel  until  they  clanked  like  chain-links  of  the  Evil  One's  own 
forging. 

On  the  grey  heave  of  the  sullen  sea,  they  rounded  the  Twin 
Horns,  and  swung  north  eastward  on  the  starboard  tack. 

Through  the  glass  they  saw  three  figures  walk  from  the 
trees  by  the  hut,  wade  into  the  snapping  breakers,  arch  for  the 
long  dive,  go  under,  emerge,  then  inch  slowly  towards  the 
pitching  yacht. 

Now,  the  drifting  fog  hid  them  from  sight,  and  all  they 
could  see  in  the  harbour  was  the  ghostly  tracery  of  her 
spars. 

"They  are  lost,"  the  girl  shrieked  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
like  the  cry  of  a  doomed  soul. 

"What  would  you  have,"  the  captain  answered.  "It  is  the 
judgment  of  God." 

Then,  as  if  all  Nature  corroborated  him,  suddenly  the  jag 
ged  crater  was  brightly  outlined  by  flames  that  spurted  like 
jets  of  blood,  followed  by  gorgeous  streamers  of  yellow,  and 
blue,  and  rose,  that  wove  fantastic  patterns  on  the  sky. 

Then  woke  the  long  drawn  subterranean  thunder  again, 
and  swell  after  swell  drove  the  ship  northward,  while  through 
the  spars  little  lights  threaded  in  and  out  like  ropes  of  flame, 
and  on  the  deck  fell  showers  of  mud  coated  with  a  weird 
phosphorescence. 

And  all  the  while,  over  the  mountain  to  the  south,  the  great 
balls  of  fire  described  their  arcs  against  the  pitch-black 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  391 

fumes ;  gigantic  geysers  sprayed  the  zenith  with  white  cas 
cades ;  and  red  rivers  flowed  in  swift  destruction  down  the 
green  terraces  Ben  had  so  often  roved. 

But  most  fearful  of  all  were  the  vivid  lightnings  that  like 
the  invisible  hand  on  the  ancient  walls  of  Babylon,  wrote  on 
the  massing  clouds  their  warnings  in  fiery,  swift-vanishing 
script. 

Set  and  stern  was  the  captain's  face,  as  his  fingers  held  to 
the  spokes,  and  he  peered  ahead  through  the  straining  ropes 
and  the  flying  scud  at  the  grey  surface  that  heaved  so  it  was 
almost  breast  to  breast  with  the  sky.  But  he  held  the  North 
Star  to  her  course,  and  they  rode  out  the  storm 

Leagues  northward,  a  strange  thing  befell.  They  sailed 
into  a  little  calm,  as  sweet  and  refreshing  to  the  weary  sailors 
as  an  oasis  to  travellers  after  the  sand-storms  of  the  Sahara. 

Around  them,  the  sea  and  sky  were  blue,  and  silver,  and 
serene,  once  more ;  the  sun,  at  his  setting,  jubilant  and  rosy ; 
and  in  his  golden  wake,  the  evening  star  throbbed  like  a 
lover's  heart  at  the  first  meeting. 

Far  away,  near  the  last  line  of  the  horizon,  hovered  a  pall 
of  smoke  above  a  dark  smudge,  the  last  they  were  to  see  of 
it — of  the  Island  of  Seven  Moons.  And  the  girl  thought  that 
now  and  then  she  could  see  them — the  full  seven,  still  cir 
cling  through  the  haze,  shining  like  pale  gold,  with  beams 
falling  from  them  like  faintest  lightnings.  At  last  they  went 
out,  but  these  threads  continued  to  glow  like  the  filaments  of 
a  globe  after  the  current  fails. 

She  plucked  Ben's  sleeve. 

"There,  it  does  look  like  the  veil  that  Spanish  Dick  told 


392  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

about,  with  the  gold  lightnings  in  it.    And — perhaps  he  was 

right  in  more  ways  than  one." 

Again  the  pad  of  shoeless  feet,  and  the  gypsy  smiled  up 

at  her,  delighted  at  this  vindication. 

"An'  see,  Senorita,  as  I  tell  you,  eet  is  floating  away." 
And  indeed,  as  they  voyaged  northward,  it  did  seem  to  be 

drifting,  drifting,  behind  and  away  from  them,  over  the  rim 

of  the  sea,  over  the  edge  of  the  world. 

No,  no  mariner  ever  brought  word  of  the  three  buccaneers 
again.  No  letter  ever  came  to  the  elder  Huntington,  and 
Lloyds  and  all  the  human  sleuths  of  the  sea  gave  them  up 
as  deservedly  lost. 

Benson  always  swore  that  they  reached  the  yacht,  and 
raised  jib  and  foresail — he  saw  them  steer  through  the  murk, 
over  that  unprecedented  swell — the  yacht  list  as  she  reached 
the  choppy  Dead  Man's  Channel,  between  the  Twin  Horns. 
Even  so  they  sailed  to  their  doom,  for  no  eighty-foot  craft 
could  live  in  that  sea. 

It  was  not  until  long  afterwards  that  Sally  realized  that 
there  were  seven  that  perished, — old  Joe  Beam,  by  the  knife, 
the  sailor  in  the  jaws  of  the  shark,  the  wicked  old  man  in 
his  shower  of  gold,  the  Pink  Swede  from  the  viper's  bite; 
and  at  last,  in  the  sea  itself,  in  the  last  eruption, — Mac- 
Allister,  who  had  fancied  himself  omnipotent ;  his  henchman 
Pete;  and  the  wayward  and  luckless  Phil — lost,  all  lost 
through  their  lust  for  that  gold.  Seven  of  them — one  for 
each  of  the  moons. 

Carlotta,  they  say,  does  not  sing  any  more — at  least  in 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  393 

public.  She  was  married — and  here  we  have  nothing  less 
than  the  authority  of  Queer  Hat — to  a  tailor,  for  whom  she 
acted  as  forewoman  for  a  while — but  only  for  that,  shortly 
after  settling  down  to  the  erecting  of  a  living  stairway  like 
her  own  parents'.  In  fact  she  threatens  to  become  a  fleshy, 
girdleless  "momma"  herself. 

About  once  a  year,  Spanish  Dick  drifts  into  the  front  yard 
of  the  old  Pell  place  to  talk  to  Don  Alfonso,  who  rises  pain 
fully  now,  for  he  is  old,  and  very  stiff  and  rheumatic.  The 
children  hang  on  his  collar,  pull  his  sausage  of  a  tail,  and  poke 
their  chubby  ringers  in  his  eyes.  But  he  is  quite  patient, 
waiting  for  that  Heaven  to  which,  his  bearded  master  as 
sures  him,  as  a  "good  doggie"  he  will  go.  A  legion  of  new 
tales  the  gypsy  has  invented,  and  a  cycle  of  songs  he  has  sung 
to  little  Henry  and  Sally,  the  perfect  miniatures,  by  the 
way,  of  the  captain  and  owner  of  the  Sally  Fell,  and  his 
wife. 

Of  some  "misery"  did  Aunt  Abigail  die,  and  nobody  really 
much  cared,  and  not  long  after  old  Cap'n  Bluster  himself,  in 
a  fit  of  laughter  at  one  of  Gus  Peter's  sallies,  which  was 
better  than  passing  in  one  of  his  old  choleric  squalls. 

As  for  Benson  and  Jack  Beam,  they  are  still  sailing  the 
seas,  as  tars  worth  their  salt  should  be  doing,  and  Cap'n 
Harve  each  day  saunters  from  his  home,  not  far  away  from 
the  old  Fell  place,  to  play  with  the  youngsters  there. 

Linda  and  the  lovable  stranger  were  married — after  they 
were  dropped  at  that  tropical  port  where  lay  the  Cafe  of 
Many  Tongues — of  that,  without  any  concrete  confirmation, 
Sally  was  sure.  It  would  have  been  his  way,  she  knew. 


394  THE  ISLE  OF  SEVEN  MOONS 

Never  a  letter  or  word  had  she,  except  when  little  Sally 
and  little  Harve  came.  Then  there  also  arrived,  that  is  a 
week  or  so  later,  a  package  with  some  indistinguishable  for 
eign  postmark,  and,  inside  the  careful  wrappings,  a  silver 
spoon  with  seven  little  moons  engraved  on  the  handle.  But 
there  was  no  card,  for  none  was  needed. 

But  she  was  very  happy  nevertheless.  She  had  her  beauti 
ful  dream,  and  she  had  a  real  live  sweetheart  and  husband, 
too,  and  one  very  faithful  and  true.  For  such  things  can  be. 

And  oh !  about  that  chest !  Well,  when  it  was  opened,  after 
they  left  the  port,  the  gleam  seemed  to  have  dulled,  and  when 
they  bent  over  to  count  the  treasure,  they  found  but  a  few  of 
the  round  shiny  things,  on  the  surface — under  them,  nothing 
but  piles  of  pebbles.  So  had  the  wicked  old  man's  "idee" 
worked  out. 

Into  the  sea  they  went,  the  iron  chest,  and  after  it,  the  top 
layer  of  the  coins.  She  would  have  none  of  it,  nor  the  sailors 
either.  It  was  accursed,  they  said,  and  afterwards  told  in 
Salthaven  how  the  shiny  things  spattered  and  hissed  when 
they  struck  the  waves. 

And  Sally,  as  they  watched  the  last  bubble  break  above 
them,  kissed  her  sweatheart. 

"Better  heart's  treasure  than  pirate  gold,  eh  Ben?" 

And  oh — yes — once,  ten  years  later,  last  summer  it  was — 
she  went  with  Ben  on  a  voyage  around  the  Horn.  And  long 
ing,  of  course,  to  see  the  island  once  more,  they  voyaged  east, 
and  west,  and  north,  and  south,  in  that  region,  but  no  island 
did  they  see. 

"He  was  right,  was  Spanish  Dick,"  Sally  said.     "It  was 


ALL  HANDS  AHOY!  395 

a  floating  island,  and  it  has  drifted  away — over  the  edge  of 
the  world." 

Once  she  thought  she  saw  or,  for  the  children's  sake,  tried 
to  think  she  saw,  its  blue  summit  and  emerald  terraces,  shin 
ing  many  fathoms  deep  under  the  ocean,  the  green  stairways 
peopled  with  beautiful  beings  and  gleaming  with  gold.  Ben 
tried  to  explain  it  away  by  an  earthquake  of  great  violence 
that  had  occurred  in  that  latitude  three  years  before.  But 
she  shook  her  head,  and  be  that  as  it  may,  you  will  not  find 
The  Island  of  Seven  Moons  on  any  chart. 

But  they  were  very  happy. 


THE  END 


Other  Books  by 

Robert   Gordon  Anderson 


The  Little  Chap 

Frontispiece  in  Color 

"  He  might  have  made  it  sentimental,  but  he  has  told  it 
with  such  simplicity  and  restraint  that  he  has  made  it  a 
work  of  art." — Philadelphia  Ledger, 

Not  Taps  but  Reveille 

"  Mr.  Anderson  has  enriched  the  enduring  literature  of 
our  race  with  noble  thoughts  expressed  in  fitting  phrases, 
and  he  has  enriched  also  the  spiritual  life  of  the  nation 
and  of  the  world  with  a  message  so  inspiring  as  to  seem 
divinely  sent." — New  York  Tribune, 

Leader  of  Men 

Photogravure  Portrait  of  Theodore  Roosevelt 

"  It  is  doubtful  if  any  of  the  Roosevelt  books  possess  the 
intimacy  of  treatment,  the  strength  of  philosophy,  the 
admirable  broadness  of  Leader  of  Men,  ...  a  great 
message — a  message  that  is  an  honor  no  more  to  the 
author  than  to  the  memory  of  the  great  American  who 
has  so  inspired  him." — Brooklyn  Eagle, 

For  Children 

Seven  O'Clock  Stories 

21  Color  Plates  by  E.  Boyd  Smith 

"  It  takes  twenty  nights  to  tell  all  the  stories,  and  when 
that  time  comes  the  youngsters  will  beg  to  have  the  pages 
turned  back,  so  that  they  may  be  read  all  over  again." 

N.  Y.  Times. 


New  York        G.  P.   Putnam's   Sons  London 


Oh,  Susanna! 

A  Romance  of  the 
Old  American  Merchant  Marine 

By  Meade  Minnigerode 

"Of  course  the  curious  events  which 
it  sets  forth  happened  many  years  ago, 
and  they  refer  to  other  events  which 
had  taken  place  long  before,  at  the 
edge  of  misty  coast  lines  fringed  with 
palms,  throbbing  with  the  sound  of 
ceremonial  gongs,  in  sweet-scented 
gardens  under  the  shadow  of  gilt 
pagodas,  and  on  the  quarterdecks  of 
graceful  sailing  ships,  riding  at  anchor 
at  the  mouths  of  mysterious  rivers, 
in  the  golden  days  of  the  Yankee 
merchant  mariners. 

'They  still  have  the  black  lacquer  box 
in  the  Parsons  home,  and  they  know 
its  story  now,  and  that  of  the  Laughing 
Elephant, — and  the  story  of  the  Golden 
Haired  Girl,  who  sang  the  song  that 
went  around  the  world.  ..." 

New  York   G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons         London 


THE  MIND  HEALER 

By 
RALPH   DURAND 

NE  would  be  doing  a  kind 
ness  to  holiday-makers  and 
stay-at-homes  alike,  by 
recommending  The  Mind  Healer,  by 
Ralph  Durand.  Here  comedy  runs 
laughing  through  the  thrill  and  mystery 
of  a  suspected  crime,  and  the  hunting 
down  of  an  innocent  man.  Dr.  Alas- 
tair  is  as  merry  a  companion  as  one 
could  wish  for,  and  the  adventures  and 
mishaps  of  a  boating  and  fishing  holi 
day  in  and  out  the  picturesque  little 
harbors  of  Cornwall  are  capitally  done. 
It  is  refreshing  to  find  a  Might  novel* 
into  which  the  author  has  put  real 
good  writing/* — Daily  Chronicle. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Greensea  Island 

By  Victor  Bridges 

He  was  second  officer  on  a  steamer 
plying  between  Brazil  and  London 
when  the  news  came.  And  now  he 
was  heir  to  his  black-sheep  uncle,  of 
whom  he  had  known  but  little  and  had 
not  seen  since  childhood. 

The  inheritance  of  a  small  island 
comes  to  John  Dry  den  as  the  fulfilment 
of  a  long-cherished  dream,  and  he  im 
mediately  decides  to  make  it  his  home. 

With  his  material  possessions  he  also 
inherits  a  mysterious  enmity,  the  cause 
for  which,  though  apparently  connected 
with  Greensea  Island,  is  unknown  to 
him.  Rapid  and  exciting  events  lead 
ing  to  the  solving  of  the  mystery — the 
romance,  the  perils,  the  girl— make  up 
the  best  yarn  that  has  come  from 
Victor  Bridges'  pen. 

New  York    G.  P.  Putnam's   Sons     London 


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